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THE 


•      POETICAL  WORKS- 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT, 


LAY  OF  THE  LAST   MINSTREL,"    "  MARMION,"    **  THE  LADY 
OF    THE    LAKE,"     "THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK," 
AND    «*  BALLADS,    LYRICAL    PIECES,    AND    SONGS." 

A    NEW    EDITION.  "^^Z 

V, 

—   \ 

BOSTON:  ^\. 

PHILLIPS    &    SAMPSON,  ^^ 

no  WASHINGTON  STREET.  ^^ 

1849.  ^ 


i 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"With  the  exception  of  a  few  poems,  this  volume  con* 
tains  the  complete  poetical  works  of  Sir  "Walter  Scott.  His 
entire  poems  would  form  a  volume  too  large  for  the  plan  of 
the  publishers ;  which  was  the  issue  of  a  complete  list,  in  a 
cheap  form,  of  the  select  poetical  works  of  all  the  standard 
poets.  This  is  one  of  that  series,  now  nearly  completed,  — 
and  it  is  believed  the  omissions  alluded  to  will  not  prove 
objectionable,  as  they  have  added  very  little,  if  anything, 
to  the  reputation  of  the  great  bard. 


sm^ 


CONTENTS. 


Poems.  Page. 

r-^Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel, 7 

^->^annioB, 109 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake, 311 

The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick 473 

Ballads  and  Lyrical  Pieces. 

, Glenfinlas,  or  Lord  Ronald's  Coronach, .511 

/"5?^The  Eve  of  Saint  John, 5^IJ 

^;^adyow  Castle, 529 

^^     The  Gray  Brother, 537 

Thomas  the  Rhymer,  Part  L, 542 

Part  II.,  altered  from  Ancient 

Prophecies, 545 

Part  III.,  Modem, 548 

The  Fire-King, bbb 

Frederick  and  Alice, 561 

The  Wild  Huntsmen, 565 

Songs. 

War-Song, 573 

The  Norman  Horse-Shoe, 575 

The  Dying  Bard, 577 

The  Maid  of  Toro, 578 

HellYellyn, 579 

1* 


LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


INTRODUCTION 


The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old; 
His  withered  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy. 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he. 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry;  • 

For,  well-a-day !  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 
Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  carolled,  light  as  lark  at  morn; 
/No  longer  courted  and  caressed, 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 
He  poured  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 
The  unpremeditated  lay; 
Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone; 
V,,^  stranger  filled  the  Stuart's  throne ; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  harper,  scorned  and  poor, 
He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door ; 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear. 
The  harp,  a  King  had  loved  to  hear. 


10  Ix\TRODUCTIOX. 


He  passed  where  Newark's  stately  tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower ; 
The  Minstrel  gazed  with  wishful  eye  — 
No  humbler  resting-  place  was  nigh, 
With  hesitating  step,  at  last. 
The  embattled  portal-arch  he  passed, 
Whose  ponderous  grate  and  massy  bar, 
Had  oft  rolled  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  Duchess  marked  his  weary  pace. 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face, 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell, 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well 
For  she  had  known  adversity. 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom. 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied, 

And  the  old  man  was  gratified. 

Began  to  raise  his  minstrel  pride : 

And  he  began  to  talk  anon, 

Of  good  Earl  Francis,  dead  and  gone. 

And  of  Earl  Walter,  rest  him  God! 

A  braver  ite'er  to  battle  rode : 

And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew. 

Of  the  old  warrioi-s  of  Buccleuch ; 

And,  would  the  noble  Duchess  deign 

To  listen  to  ^  old  man's  strain. 

Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though  weak, 

He  thought  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak, 

That,  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear,    ' 

He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtained; 

The  Aged  Minstrel  audience  gained. 

But,  when  he  reached  the  room  of  state, 

Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate, 

Perchance  he  wished  his  boon  denied ; 

For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 

His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease. 

Which  marks  security  to  please; 

And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain, 

Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain  — 

He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain. 

The  pitying  Duchess  praised  its  chime, 

And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time, 

Till  every  string's  according  glee 

Was  blended  into  harmony. 

And  then,  lie  said,  he  would  full  fain 

He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain. 

He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 

It  was  not  framed  for  village  churls. 

But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls ; 

He  had  played  it  to  King  Charles  the  Good 

When  he  kept  court  at  Holyrood ; 

And  much  he  wished,  yet  feared,  to  try 

The  long  forgotten  melody. 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  strayed, 
And 'an  uncertain  warbling  made. 
And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 
But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild. 
The  old  man  raised  his  face  and  smiled ; 
And  lightened  up  his  faded  eye, 
With  all  a  poet's  ecstacy ! 
In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong. 
He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along: 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  present  scene,  the  future  lot, 
His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot: 
Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost, 
In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost; 
Each  blank,  in  faithless  memory  void, 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied; 
And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
'Twas  thus  the  Latest  Minstrel  sung. 


LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


CANTO  FIRST. 

The  feast  was  over  in  Branksome  tower,        » 

And  the  Ladye  had  gone  to  her  secret  bower; 

Her  bower,  that  was  guarded  by  word  and  by  spell, 

Deadly  to  hear,  and  deadly  to  tell  — 

Jesu  Maria,  shield  us  well! 

No  living  wight,  save  the  Ladye  alone, 

Had  dared  to  cross  the  threshold  stone. 

The  tables  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  all ; 

Knight,  and  page,  and  household  squire, 
Loitered  through  the  lofty  hall. 

Or  crowded  round  the  ample  fire. 
The  stag-hounds,  weary  with  the  chase, 

Lay  stretched  upon  the  rushy  floor. 
And  urged,  in  dreams,  the  forest  race. 

From  Teviot-stone  to  Eskdale-moor. 

Nine-and-twenty  knights  of  fame 

Hung  their  shields  in  Branksome  Hall ; 
Nine-and-twenty  squires  of  name 
Brought  them  their  steeds  from  bower  to  stall; 
Nine-and-twenty  yeomen  tall 
Waited,  duteous,  on  them  all: 


14  LAY    OF    THE 

They  were  all  knights  of  mettle  true, 
Kinsmen  to  the  bold  Buccleuch. 

Ten  of  them  were  sheathed  in  steel, 
With  belted  sword,  and  spur  on  heel; 
They  quitted  not  their  harness  bright, 
Neither  by  day,  nor  yet  by  night: 

They  lay  down  to  rest 

With  corslet  laced, 
Pillowed  on  buckler  cold  and  hard ; 

They  carved  at  the  meal 

With  gloves  of  steel. 
And  they  drank  the   red  wine  through  the 
helmet  barred. 

Ten  squires,  ten  yeomen,  mail-clad  men, 
Waited  the  beck  of  the  warders  ten; 
Thirty  steeds,  both  fleet  and  wight. 
Stood  saddled  in  stable  day  and  night, 
Barbed  with  frontlet  of  steel,  I  trow. 
And  with  Jedwood-axe  at  saddle  bow ; 
A  hundred  more  fed  free  in  stall:  — 
Such  was  the  custom  of  Branksome  Hall. 

Why  do  these  steeds  stand  ready  dight? 

Why  watch  those  warriors,  armed,  by  night? 

They  watch,  to  hear  the  blood-hound  baying; 

They  watch,  to  hear  the  war-horn  braying; 

To  see  St.  George's  red  cross  streaming. 

To  see  the  midnight  beacon  gleaming; 

They  watch,  against  Southern  force  and  guiie, 
Lest  Scroop,  or  Howard,  or  Percy's  powers, 
Threaten  Branksome's  lordly  towers, 

From  Warwick,  or  Naworth,  or  merry  Carlisle 


LAST    MINSTREL.  15 

Such  is  the  custom  of  Branksome  Hall.  — 

Many  a  valiant  knight  is  here ; 
But  he,  the  Chieftain  of  them  all, 
His  sword  hangs  rusting  on  the  wall, 

Beside  his  broken  spear. 
Bards  long  shall  tell. 
How  lord  Walter  fell! 
When  startled  burghers  fled,  afar. 
The  furies  of  the  Border  war; 
When  the  streets  of  high  Dunedin 
Saw  lances,  gleam,  and  falchions  redden, 
And  heard  the  slogan's  deadly  yell  — 
Then  the  Chief  of  Branksome  fell. 

Can  piety  the  discord  heal. 

Or  stanch  the  death-feud's  enmity  ? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal, 

Can  love  of  blessed  charity  ? 
No !   vainly  to  each  holy  shrine. 

In  mutual  pilgrimage  they  drew : 
Implored,  in  vain,  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs,  their  own  red  falchions  slew; 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Car, 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughtered  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar, 

The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war. 
Shall  never,  never  be  forgot ! 

In  sorrow,  o'er  lord  Walter's  bier 

The  warlike  foresters  had  bent; 
And  many  a  flower,  and  many  a  tear. 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matrons  icnt: 
But  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier 
The  Ladye  dropped  nor  flower  nor  tear! 


16    -  LAY    OF    THE 

Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 

Had  locked  the  source  of  softer  woe; 
And  burning  pride,  and  high  disdain, 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow ; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan. 

Her  son  lisped  from  the  nurse's  knee  — 
"And  if  I  live  to  be  a  man. 

My  father's  death  revenged  shall  be ! " 
Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 
To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 

All  loose  her  negligent  attire, 

All  loose  her  golden  hair. 
Hung  Margaret  o'er  her  slaughtered  sire. 

And  wept  in  wild  despair. 
But  not  alone  the  bitter  tear 

Had  filial  grief  supplied ; 
For  hopeless  love,  and  anxious  fear. 

Had  lent  their  mingled  tide: 
Nor  in  her  mother's  altered  eye 
Dared  she  to  look  for  sympathy. 
Her  lover,  'gainst  her  father's  clan. 

With  Car  in  arms  had  stood. 
When  Mathouse-burn  to  Melrose  ran. 

All  purple  with  their  blood. 
And  well  she  knew,  her  mother  dread. 
Before  Lord  Cranstoun  she  should  wed, 
Would  see  her  on  her  dying  bed. 


Of  noble  race  the  Ladye  came; 
Her  father  was  a  clerk  of  fame. 

Of  Berthune's  line  of  Picardie : 
He  learned  the  ait,  that  none  may  name, 


LAST    MINSTREL. 

In  Padua,  far  beyond  the  sea. 
Men  said,  he  changed  his  mortal  frame 

By  feat  of  magic  mystery; 
For  when,  in  studious  mood,  he  paced 

St.  Andrew's  cloistered  hall, 
His  form  no  darkening  shadow  traced 

Upon  the  sunny  wall ! 

And  of  his  skill,  as  bards  avow, 

He  taught  that  Ladye  fair. 
Till  to  her  bidding  she  could  bow 

The  viewless  forms  of  air. 
And  now  she  sits  in  secret  bower. 
In  old  Lord  David's  western  tower. 
And  listens  to  a  heavy  sound, 
That  moans  the  mossy  turrets  round. 
Is  it  the  roar  of  Teviot's  tide. 
That  chafes  against  the  scaur's  red  side  ? 
Is  it  the  wind  that  swings  the  oaks  ? 
Is  it  the  echo  from  the  rocks  ? 
What  may  it  be,  the  heavy  sound. 
That  moans  old  Branksome's  turrets  round? 

At  the  sullen,  moaning  sound. 

The  ban-dogs  bay  and  howl; 
And,  from  the  turrets  round, 
Loud  whoops  the  startled  owl. 
In  the  hall,  both  squire  and  knight 
Swore  that  a  storm  was  near, 
And  looked  forth  to  view  the  night; 

But  the  night  was  still  and  clear! 


From  the  sound  of  Teviot's  tide. 
Chafing  with  the  mountain's  side, 

2* 


in  LAY    OF    THE 

Prom  tiie  groan  of  the  wind-swung  oak, 
From  the  sullen  echo  of  the  rock, 
From  the  voice  of  the  coming  storm. 

The  Ladye  knew  it  well! 
It  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Flood  who  spoke, 

And  he  called  on  the  Spirit  of  the  Fell. 


RIVER    SPIRIT. 

"Sleepest  thou,  brother?" 

MOUNTAIN    SPIRIT. 

"Brother,  nay  — 

On  my  hills  the  moonbeams  play 
From  Craik-cross  to  Skelfhill-pen, 
By  every  rill,  in  every  glen. 
Merry  elves  their  morrice  pacing. 

To  aerial  minstrelsy. 
Emerald  rings  on  brown  heath  tracing, 
Trip  it  deft  and  merrily. 
Up,  and  mark  their  nimble  feet! 
Up,  and  list  their  music  sweet!" 

RIVER    SPIRIT. 

"Tears  of  an  imprisoned  maiden 
Mix  with  my  polluted  stream; 

Margaret  of  Branksome,  sorrow-laden, 
Mourns  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam. 

Tell  me,  thou,  who  viewest  the  stars,  • 

When  shall  cease  these  feudal  jars  ? 

What  shall  be  the  maiden's  fate  ? 

Who  shall  be  the  maiden's  mate?" 


LAST    MINSTREL.  10 

MOUNTAIN    SPIRIT. 

"Arthur's  slow  wain  his  course  doth  roll 

In  utter  darkness,  round  the  pole ; 

The  Northern  Bear  lowers  black  and  grim; 

Orion's  studded  belt  is  dim ; 

Twinkling  faint,  and  distant  far, 

Shimmers  through  mist  each  planet  star; 

111  may  I  read  tlieir  high  decree : 
But  no  kind  influence  deign  they  shower 
On  Teviot's  tide,  and  Branksome's  tower, 

Till  pride  be  quelled  and  love  be  free." 

The  unearthly  voices  ceased, 

And  the  heavy  sound  was  still; 
It  died  on  the  river's  breast. 

It  died  on  the  side  of  the  hill. — 
But  round  Lord  David's  tower 

The  sound  still  floated  near; 
For  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  bower, 

And  it  rung  in  the  Ladye's  ear. 
She  raised  her  stately  head. 

And  her  heart  throbbed  high  with  pride:  — 
"Your  mountains  shall  bend, 
And  your  streams  ascend. 

Ere  Margaret  be  our  foeman's  bride ! " 

The  Ladye  sought  the  lofty  hall, 

Where  many  a  bold  retainer  lay. 
And,  with  jocund  din,  among  them  all. 

Her  son  pursued  his  infant  play. 
A  fancied  moss-trooper,  the  boy 

The  truncheon  of  a  spear  bestrode, 
And  round  the  hall,  right  merrily. 

In  mimic  foray  rode. 


30  LAY   OF    THE 

Even  bearded  knights,  in  arms  grown  old, 
Share  in  his  frolic  gambols  bore, 

Albeit  their  hearts,  of  rugged  mould, 

Were  stubborn  as  the  steel  they  wore. 

For  the  gray  warriors  prophesied, 
How  the  brave  boy,  in  future  war. 

Should  tame  the  Unicorn's  pride. 
Exalt  the  Crescents  and  the  Star. 


The  Ladye  forgot  her  purpose  high, 

One  moment,  and  no  more ; 
One  moment  gazed  with  a  mother's  eye, 

As  she  paused  at  the  arched  door: 
Then,  from  amid  the  armed  train, 
She  called  to  her  William  of  Deloraine. 


A  stark  moss-trooping  Scot  was  he. 
As  e'er  couched  border  lance  by  knee: 
Through  Solway  sands,  through  Tarras  moss, 
Blindfold,  he  knew  the  paths  to  cross ; 
By  wily  turns,  by  desperate  bounds. 
Had  baffled  Percy's  best  blood-hounds; 
In  Eske,  or  Liddel,  fords  were  none. 
But  he  would  ride  them  one  by  one; 
Alike  to  him  was  time  or  tide, 
December's  snow,  or  July's  pride ; 
Alike  to  him  was  tide,  or  time. 
Moonless  midnight,  or  matin  prime : 
Steady  of  heart,  and  stout  of  hand. 
As  ever  drove  prey  from  Cumberland; 
Five  times  outlawed  had  he  been. 
By  England's  king  and  Scotland's  queen. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  SH 

"Sir  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 

Mount  thee  on  the  wightest  steed; 
Spare  not  to  spur,  nor  stint  to  ride, 
Until  thou  come  to  fair  Tweedside ; 
And  in  Melrose's  holy  pile 
Seek  thou  the  Monk  of  St  Mary's  aisle. 

Greet  the  father  well  from  me; 
Say,  that  the  fated  hour  is  come, 

And  to-night  he  shall  watch  with  thee. 
To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb : 
For  this  will  be  Sti  Michael's  night, 
And,  though  stars  be  dim,  the  moon  is  bright; 
And  the  Cross,  of  bloody  red. 
Will  point  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead. 
What  he  gives  thee,  see  thou  keep ; 
Stay  not  tliou  for  food  or  sleep: 
Be  it  scroll,  or  be  it  book. 
Into  it,  knight,  thou  must  not  look; 
If  thou  readest,  thou  art  lorn! 
Better  had'st  thou  ne'er  been  born."    - 

"O  swiftly  can  speed  my  dapple-gray  steed, 

Which  drinks  of  the  Teviot  clear; 
Ere  break  of  day,"  the  warrior  'gan  say, 

"  Again  will  I  be  here : 
And  safer  by  none  may  thy  errand  be  done, 

Than,  noble  dame,  by  me; 
Letter  nor  line  know  I  never  a  one, 

Were't  my  neck-verse  at  Hairibee." 

Soon  in  his  saddle  sate  he  fast. 
And  soon  the  steep  descent  he  past, 
Soon  crossed  the  sounding  barbican, 
And  soon  the  Teviot  side  he  won. 


22  LAY    OF    THE 

Eastward  the  wooded  path  he  rode; 
Green  hazels  o'er  his  basnet  nod: 
He  passed  the  Peel  of  Goldiland, 
And  crossed  old  Borthwick's  roaring  strand; 
Dimly  he  viewed  the  Moat-hill's  mound, 
Where  Druid  shades  still  flitted  round; 
In  Harwick  twinkled  many  a  light ; 
Behind  him  soon  they  set  in  night; 
And  soon  he  spurred  his  courser  keen 
Beneath  the  tower  of  Hazeldean. 

The  clattering  hoofs  the  watchmen  mark;  — 
"Stand,  ho!   thou  courier  of  the  dark." 
"For  Branksome,  ho!"  the  knight  rejoined. 
And  left  the  friendly  tower  behind. 
He  turned  him  now  from  Teviotside, 

And,  guided  by  the  tinkling  rill. 
Northward  the  dark  ascent  did  ride, 

And  gained  the  moor  at  Horseliehill ; 
Broad  on  the  left  before  him  lay, 
For  many  a  mile,  the  Roman  way. 

A  moment  now  he  slacked  his  speed, 
A  moment  breathed  his 'Ranting  steed: 
Drew  saddle-girth  and  corslet-band. 
And  loosened  in  the  sheath  his  brand. 
On  Minto-crags  the  moon-beams  glint. 
Where  Barnhill  hewed  his  bed  of  flint; 
Who  flung  his  outlawed  limbs  to  rest, 
Where  falcons  hang  their  giddy  nest. 
Mid  cliffs,  from  whence  his  eagle  eye 
For  many  a  league  his  prey^could  spy; 
Cliffs,  doubling,  on  their  echoes  borne. 
The  terrors  of  the  robber's  horn; 


LAST   MINSTREL. 


Cliffs,  which,  for  many  a  later  year. 
The  warbling  Doric  reed  shall  hear, 
When  some  sad  swain  shall  teacji  the  grove, 
Ambition  is  no„  CUra.  for  kii'.e. 


Unchallenged,  thence  past  Deloraine 
To  ancient  Riddel's  fair  domain, 

Where  Aill,  from  mountains  freed, 
Down,  from  the  lakes  did  raving  come  ; 
Each  wave  was  crested  with  tawny  foam. 

Like  the  mane  of  a  chestnut  steed. 
In  vain!   no  torrent,  deep  or  broad. 
Might  bar  the  bold  moss-trooper's  road. 


At  the  first  plunge  the  horse  sunk  low. 

And  the  water  broke  o'er  the  saddle-bow ; 

Above  the  foaming  tide,  I  ween. 

Scarce  half  the  charger's  neck  was  seen; 

For  he  was  barded  from  counter  to  tail. 

And  the  rider  was  armed  complete  in  mail ; 

Never  heavier  man  and  horse 

Stemmed,  a  midnight  torrent's  force. 

The  warrior's  very  plume,  I  say. 

Was  daggled  by  the  dashing  spray ; 

Yet,  through  good  heart,  and  our  Ladye's  grace, 

At  length  he  gained  the  landing  place. 


Now  Bowden  Moor  the  march-man  won, 
And  sternly  shoolj  his  plumed  head. 

As  glanced  his  eye  o'er  Halidon ; 
For  on  his  soul  the  slaughter  red 


ri^**«#»>.^ 


94  LAY    OF    THE 

Of  that  unhallowed  morn  arose, 
When  first  the  Scott  and  Car  were  foes; 
When  royal  James  beheld  the  fray, 
Prize  to  the  victor  of  the  day ; 
When  Home  and  Douglas,  in  the  van. 
Bore  down  Buccleuch's  retiring  clan, 
Till  gallant  Cessford's  heart-blood  dear 
Reeked  on  dark  Elliot's  Border  spear. 


In  bitter  mood  he  spurred  fast. 

And  soon  the  hated  heath  was  past; 

And  far  beneath,  in  lustre  wan. 

Old  Melros'  rose,  and  fair  Tweed  ran: 

Like  some  tall  rock,  with  lichens  gray, 

Seemed,  dimly  huge,  the  dark  Abbaye. 

When  Hawick  he  passed,  had  curfew  rung, 

Now  midnight  lauds  were  in  Melrose  sung. 

The  sound  upon  the  fitful  gale. 

In  solemn  wise  did  rise  and  fail, 

Like  that  wild  harp,  whose  magic  tone 

Is  wakened  by  the  winds  alone. 

But  when  Melrose  he  reached,  'twas  silence  all ; 

He  meetly  stabled  his  steed  in  stall, 

And  sought  the  convent's  lonely  wall. 


Here  paused  the  harp;  and  with  its  swell 
The  Master's  fire  and  courage  fell : 
Dejectedly,  and  low,  he  bowed. 
And,  gazing  timid  on  the  crowd, 
He  seemed  to  seek,  in  every  eye, 
If  they  approved  his  minstrelsy; 


LAST    MINSTREL.  2^ 

And,  diffident  of  present  praise, 
Somewhat  he  spoke  of  former  days. 
And  how  old  age,  and  wandering  long. 
Had  done  his  hand  and  harp  some  wrong. 

The  Duchess,  and  her  daughters  fair, 
And  every  gentl5  ladye  there, 
Each  after  each,  in  due  degree. 
Gave  praises  to  his  melody ; 
His  hand  was  true,  his  voice  was  clear. 
And  much  they  longed  the  rest  to  hear. 
EncQiiraged  thus,  the  Aged  Man, 
After  meet  rest,  again  began. 


CANTO  SECOND. 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 

For  the  gay  beam3  of  lightsome  day 

Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night. 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white ; 

When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower; 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory; 
3 


^ 


26  LAY    OF    THE 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 

Then  view  St  David's  ruined  pile: 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear. 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair ! 

• 

I 
I 

Short  halt  did  Deloraine  make  there ; 

Little  recked  he  of  the  scene  so  fair. 
With  dagger's  hilt,  on  the  wicket  strong, 
He  struck  full  loud,  and  struck  full  long. 
The  porter  hurried  to  the  gate  — 
"Who  knocks  so  loud,  and  knocks  so  late?" 
"  From  Branksome  I,"  the  warrior  cried ; 
And  strait  the  wicket  opened  wide : 

For  Branksome's  chiefs  had  in  battle  stood, 
To  fence  the  rights  of  fair  Melrose ; 

And  lands  and  livings,  many  a  rood, 
Had  gifted  the  shrine  for  their  soul's  repose. 


Bold  Deloraine  his  errand  said ; 

The  porter  bent  his  humble  head ; 

With  torch  in  hand,  and  feet  unshod. 

And  noiseless  step,  the  path  he  trod : 

The  arched  cloisters,  far  and  wide. 

Rang  to  the  warrior's  clanking  stride; 

Till,  stooping  low  his  lofty  crest, 

He  entered  the  cell  of  the  ancient  priest, 

And  lifted  his  barred  aventayle. 

To  hail  the  Monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle. 


LAST    MINSTREL.  27 

"The  Ladye  of  Branksome  greets  thee  by  me; 

Says  that  the  fated  hour  is  come, 
And  that  to-night  I  shall  watch  with  thee, 

To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb." 
From  sackcloth  couch  the  Monk  arose. 

With  toil  his  stiffened  limbs  he  reared; 
A  hundred  years  had  flung  their  snoWS 

On  his  thin  locks  and  floating  beard. 

And  strangely  on  the  Knight  looked  he, 

And  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  wild  and  wide;  — 
"And,  dar'st  thou,  warrior!  seek  to  see 

What  heaven  and  hell  alike  would  hide  ? 
My  breast,  in  belt  of  iron  pent, 

With  shirt  of  hair  and  scourge  of  thorn; 
For  threescore  years,  in  penance  spent. 

My  knees  those  flinty  stones  have  worn ; 
Yet  all  too'  little  to  atone 
For  knowing  what  should  ne'er  be  known. 

Would'st  thou  thy  every  future  year 
In  ceaseless  prayer  and  penance  drie, 

Yet  wait  thy  latter  end  with  fear  — 
Then,  daring  warrior,  follow  me ! " 

"  Penance,  father,  will  I  none ; 

Prayer  know  I  hardly  one ; 

For  mass  or  prayer  can  I  rarely  tarry, 

Save  to  patter  an  Ave  Mary, 

When  I  ride  on  a  Border  foray: 

Other  prayer  can  I  none; 

So  speed  me  my  errand,  and  let  me  begone." 

Again  on  the  Knight  looked  the  Churchman  old, 
And  again  he  sighed  heavily; 


28 


LAY    OF    THE 


For  he  had  himself  been  a  warrior  bold, 

And  fought  in  Spain  and  Italy. 
And  he  thought  on  the  days  that  were  long  since  by, 
When  his  limbs  were  strong,  and  his  courage  was  high : 
Now,  slow  and  faint,  he  led  the  way, 
Where,  cloistered  round,  the  garden  lay ; 

The  pillared  arches  were  over  their  head, 
And  beneath  their  feet  were  the  bones  of  the  dead. 


^   Spreading  herbs,  and  flowerets  bright. 
Glistened  with  the  dew  of  night; 
Nor  herb,  nor  floweret,  glistened  there, 
;    But  was  carved  in  the  cloister-arches  as  fair. 
;       The  Monk  gazed  long  on  the  lovely  moon, 
I     '      Then  into  the  night  he  looked  forth ; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 
Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 
So  had  he  seen,  in  fair  Castile, 

The  youth  in  glittering  squadrons  start; 
Suddenly  the  flying  jennet  wheel. 
And  hurl  the  unexpected  dart. 
He  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so  bright. 
That  spirits  were  riding  the  northern  light 


By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door, 
They  entered  now  the  chancel  tall; 

The  darkened  roof  rose  high  aloof 
On  pillars,  lofty,  and  light,  and  small; 

The  key-stone,  that  locked  each  ribbed  aisle, 

Was  a  fleur-de-lys,  or  a  quatre-feuille ; 

The  corbells  were  carved  grotesque  and  grim ; 

And  the  pillars,  with  clustered  shafts  so  trim, 


LAST    MINSTREL.  U& 

With  base  and  with  capital  flourished  around, 
Seemed  bundles  of  lances  which  garlands  had  bound. 

Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner,  riven, 
Shook  to  the  cold  night-wind  of  heaven, 

Around  the  screened  altars  pale; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
O  gallant  Chief  of  Otterbume, 

And  thine^  dark  Knight  of  Liddesdale! 
O  fading  honors  of  the  dead! 
O  high  ambition,  lowly  laid! 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone. 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone. 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined ; 
Thou  would'st  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand, 
'Twixt  poplars  straight,  the  osier  wand, 

In  many  a  freakish  knot  had  twined ; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done, 
And  changed  the  willoAv-wreaths  to  stone. 

The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint. 

Showed  many  a  prophet,  and  many  a  saint, 
Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed ; 

Full  in  the  midst,  his  Cross  of  Red 

Triumphant  Michael  brandished, 
And  trampled  the  Apostate's  pride. 
The  moon-beam  kissed  the  holy  pane. 
And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 

They  sate  them  down  on  a  marble  stone, 

A  Scottish  monarch  slept  below ; 

Thus  spoke  the  Monk,  in  solemn  tone :  — 

"  I  was  not  always  a  man  of  woe ; 
3* 


30  LAY    OF    THE 

For  Paynim  countries  I  have  trod, 
And  fought  beneath  the  Cross  of  God; 
Now,  strange  to  my  eyes  thine  arms  appear. 
And  their  iron  clang  sounds  strange  to  my  ear. 


"In  these  far  climes,  it  was  my  lot 
To  meet  the  wondrous  Michael  Scott; 

A  wizard  of  such  dreaded  fame, 
That  when,  in  Salamanca's  cave. 
Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave. 

The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame! 
Some  of  his  skill  he  taught  to  me ; 
And,  Warrior,  I  could  say  to  thee 
The  words  that  cleft  Eildon  hills  in  three, 

And  bridled  the  Tweed  with  a  curb  of  stone; 
But  to  speak  them  were  a  deadly  sin ; 
And  for  having  but  thought  them  my  heart  within, 

A  treble  penance  must  be  done. 


"When  Michael  lay  on  his  dying  bed, 

His  conscience  was  awakened : 

He  bethought  him  of  his  sinful  deed, 

And  he  gave  me  a  sign  to  come  with  speed 

I  was  in  Spain  when  the  morning  rose. 

But  I  stood  by  his  bed  ere  evening  close. 

The  words  may  not  again  be  said, 

That  he  spoke  to  me,  on  death-bed  laid; 

They  would  rend  this  Abbaye's  massy  nave. 

And  pile  it  in  heaps  above  his  grave. 


"I  swore  to  bury  his  Mighty  Book, 
That  never  mortal  might  therein  look 


LAST    MINSTREL.  31 

And  never  to  tell  where  it  was  hid, 

Save  at  his  chief  of  Branksome's  need ; 

And  when  that  need  was  past  and  o'er, 

Again  the  volume  to  restore. 

I  buried  him  on  St.  Michael's  night, 

When  the  bell  tolled  one,  and  the  moon  was  bright ; 

And  I  dug  his  chamber  among  the  dead. 

When  the  floor  of  the  chancel  was  stained  red, 

That  his  patron's  Cross  might  over  him  wave. 

And  scare  the  fiends  from  the  Wizard's  grave. 


"It  was  a  night  of  woe  and  dread. 

When  Michael  in  the  tomb  I  laid ; 

Strange  sounds  along  the  chancel  past, 

The  banners  waved  without  a  blast,"  — 

Still  spoke  the  Monk,  when  the  bell  tolled  one ! — 

I  tell  you,  that  a  braver  man 

Than  WiUiam  of  Deloraine  good  at  need. 

Against  a  foe  ne'er  spurred  a  steed; 

Yet  somewhat  was  he  chilled  with  dread, 

An(^his  haur  did  bristle  upon  his  head. 


"Lo,  Warrior!   now,  the  Cross  of  Red 

Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead ; 

Within  it  burns  a  wondrous  light. 

To  chase  the  spirits  that  love  the  night: 

That  lamp  shall  burn  unquenchably. 

Until  the  eternal  doom  shall  be." 

Slow  moved  the  Monk  to  the  broad  flag-stone, 

Which  the  bloody  Cross  was  traced  upon* 

He  pointed  to  a  secret  nook; 

An  iron  bar  the  warrior  took; 


32  LAY    OF    THE 

And  the  Monk  made  a  sign,  with  his  withered  hand, 
The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 

With  beating 'heart  to  the  task  he  went; 
His  sinewy  frame  o'er  the  grave-stone  bent; 
With  the  bar  of  iron  heaved  amain, 
Till  the  toil-drops  fell  from  his  brows,  like  rain. 
It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength, 
That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length. 
I  would  you  had  been  there,  to  see 
How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously. 
Streamed  upward  to  the  chancel  roof. 
And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof! 
No  earthly  flame  blazed  e'er  so  bright: 
It  shone  like  heaven's  own  blessed  light; 
And,  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Showed  the  Monk's  cowl,  and  visage  pale, 
Danced  on  the  dark-brow'd  Warrior's  mail, 
And  kissed  his  waving  plume. 

Before  their  eyes  the  Wizard  lay, 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day. 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  rolled, 
He  seemed  some  seventy  winters  old ; 

A  palmer's  amice  wrapped  him  round, 

With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound. 
Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea: 

His  left  hand  held  his  Book  of  Might; 

A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right ; 
The  lamp  was  placed  beside  his  knee; 
High  and  majestic  was  his  look, 
At  which  the  fellest  fiends  had  shook. 
And  all  unruffled  was  his  face :  — 
They  trusted  his  soul  had  gotten  grace. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  33 

Often  had  William  of  Deloraine 
Rode  through  the  battle's  bloody  plain, 
And  trampled  down  the  warriors  slain; 

And  neither  known  remorse  or  awe ; 
Yet  now  remorse  and  awe  he  owned ; 
His  breath  came  thick,  hjs  head  swam  round, 

When  this  strange  scene  of  death  he  saw. 
Bewildered  and  unnerved  he  stood. 
And  the  priest  prayed  fervently  and  loud : 
With  eyes  averted  prayed  he; 
He  might  not  endure  the  sight  to  see, 
Of  the  man  he  had  loved  so  brotherly. 


And  when  the  Priest  his  death-prayer  had  prayed, 

Thus  unto  Deloraine  he  said:  — 

"  Now  speed  thee  what  thou  hast  to  do. 

Or,  Warrior,  we  may  dearly  rue; 

For  those,  thou  mayest  not  look  upon. 

Are  gathering  fast  round  the  yawning  stone ! " 

Then  Deloraine,  in  terror,  took 

From  the  cold  hand  the  Mighty  Book, 

With  iron  clasped,  and  with  iron  bound : 

He  thought,  as  he  took  it,  the  dead  man  frowned; 

But  the  glare  of  the  sepulchral  light, 

Perchance,  had  dazzled  the  warrior's  sight 


When  the  huge  stone  sunk  o'er  the  tomb. 

The  night  returned,  in  double  gloom; 

For  the  moOn  had  gone  down,  and  the  stars  were  few  ; 

And,  as  the  Knight  and  Priest  withdrew, 

Witli  wavering  steps  and  dizzy  brain. 

They  hardly  might  the  postern  gain. 


34  LAY    OF    THE 

'Tis  said,  as  through  the  aisles  they  passed, 

They  heard  strange  noises  on  the  blast; 

And  through  the  cloister-galleries  small, 

Which  at  mid-height  thread  the  chancel  wall, 

Loud  sobs,  and  laughter  louder,  ran, 

And  voices  unlike  the  voice  of  man ; 

As  if  the  fiends  kept  holiday, 

Because  these  spells  were  brought  to-day. 

I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be; 

I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me. 

"Now,  hie  thee  hence,"  the  Father  said, 
"And  when  we  are  on  death-bed  laid, 
O  may  our  dear  Ladye,  and  sweet  St.  John, 
Forgive  our  souls  for  the  deed  we  have  done!" 

The  monk  returned  him  to  his  cell, 
And  many  a  prayer  and  penance  sped ; 

When  the  convent  met  at  the  noontide  bell  — 
The  Monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle  was  dead! 
Before  the  cross  was  the  body  laid, 
With  hands  clasped  fast,  as  if  still  he  prayed. 

The  Knight  breathed  free  in  the  morning  wind. 

And  strove  his  hardihood  to  find : 

He  was  glad  when  he  passed  the  tombstones  gray, 

Which  girdle  round  the  fair  Abbaye ; 

For  the  mystic  Book,  to  his  bosom  prest, 

Felt  like  a  load  upon  his  breast; 

And  his  joints,  with  rfferves  of  iron  twined. 

Shook  like  tlie  aspen  leaves  in  wind. 

Full  fain  was  he  when  the  dawn  of  day 

Began  to  brighten  Cheviot  gray; 

He  joyed  to  see  the  cheerful  light, 

And  he  said  Ave  Mary,  as  well  he  might 


LAST   MINSTREL. 

The  sun  had  brightened  Cheviot  gray, 
The  sun  had  brightened  the  Carter's  side; 

And  soon  beneath  the  rising  day- 
Smiled  Branksome  towers  and  Teviot's  tide. 

The  wild  birds  told  their  warbling  tale, 
And  wakened  every  flower  that  blows ; 

And  peeped  forth  the  violet  pale. 

And  spread  her  breast  the  mountain  rose ; 

And  lovelier  than  the  rose  so  red. 
Yet  paler  than  the  violet  pale. 

She  early  left  her  sleepless  bed. 
The  fairest  maid  of  Teviotdale. 


Why  does  fair  Margaret  so  early  awake, 

And  don  her  kirtle  so  hastilie ; 
And  the  silken  knots,  which  in  hurry  she  would  make, 

Why  tremble  her  slender  fingers  to  tie  ; 
Why  does  she  stop,  and  look  often  around, 

As  she  glides  down  the  secret  stair; 

And  why  does  she  pat  the  shaggy  blood-hound, 

As  he  rouses  him  up  from  his  lair ; 
And,  though  she  passes  the  postern  alone, 
Why  is  not  the  watchman's  bugle  blown? 


The  ladye  steps  in  doubt  and  dread. 

Lest  her  watchful  mother  hear  her  tread ; 

The  ladye  caresses  the  rough  blood-hound, 

Lest  his  voice  should  waken  the  castle  round ; 

The  watchman's  bugle  is  not  blown, 

For  he  wels  her  foster-father's  son; 

And  she  glides  through  the  greenwood  at  dawn  of  light, 

To  meet  Baron  Henry,  her  own  true  knight 


36  liAY    OF    THE 

The  Knight  and  Ladye  fair  are  met, 
And  under  the  hawthorn's  boughs  are  set 
A  fairer  pair  were  never  seen 
To  meet  beneath  the  hawthorn  green. 
He  was  stately,  and  young,  and  tall; 
Dreaded  in  battle,  and  loved  in  hall ; 
And  she,  when  love,  scarce  told,  scarce  hid, 
Lent  to  her  cheek  a  livelier  red ; 
When  the  half  sigh  her  swelling  breast 
Against  the  silken  ribband  pressed; 
When  her  blue  eyes  their  secret  told, 
^  Though  shaded  by  her  locks  of  gold  — 
Where  would  you  find  the  peerless  fair, 
With  Margaret  of  Branksome  might  compare! 

And  now,  fair  dames,  methinks  I  see 

You  listen  to  my  minstrelsy ; 

Your  waving  locks  ye  backward  throw, 

And  sidelong  bend  your  necks  of  snow:  — 

Ye  ween  to  hear  a  melting  tale, 

Of  two  true  lovers  in  a  dale ; 

And  how  the  Knight,  with  tender  fire. 

To  paint  his  faithful  passion  strove ; 
Swore,  he  might  at  her  feet  expire, 

But  never,  never  cease  to  love ; 
And  how  she  blushed,  and  how  she  sighed. 
And  half  consenting,  half  denied. 
And  said  that  she  would  die  a  maid :  — 
Yet,  might  the  bloody  feud  be  stayed, 
Henry  of  Cranstoun,  and  only  he, 
Margaret  of .  Branksome's  choice  should  be. 

Alas!  fair  dames,  your  hopes  are  vain! 
My  harp  has  lost  the  enchanting  strain; 


LAST   BHNSTREL. 

Its  lightness  would  my  age  reprove: 
My  hairs  are  gray,  my  limbs  are  old, 
My  heart  is  dead,  my  veins  are  cold 

I  may  not,  must  not,  sing  of  love. 

Beneath  an  oak,  mossed  o'er  by  eld. 
The  Baron's  Dwarf  his  courser  held, 

And  held  his  crested  helm  and  spear : 
That  Dwarf  was  scarcely  an  earthly  man, 
If  the  tales  were  true,  that  of  him  ran 

Through  all  the  Border,  far  and  near. 
'Twas  said,  when  the  Baron  a  hunting  rode 
Through  Reedsdale's  glens,  but  rarely  trod. 

He  heard  a  voice  cry,  "Lost!  lost!  lost!" 

And,  like  tennis-ball  by  raquet  tossed, 
A  leap,  of  thirty  feet  and  three. 

Made  from  the  gorse  this  elfin  shape, 

Distorted  like  some  dwarfish  ape. 

And  lighted  at  Lord  Cranstoun's  knee. 

Lord  Cranstoun  was  some  whit  dismayed ; 

'Tis  said  that  five  good  miles  he  rode, 
To  rid  him  of  his  company ; 
But  where  he  rode  one  mile,  the  Dwarf  ran  four, 
And  the  Dwarf  was  first  at  the  castle  door. 


Use  lessens  marvel,  it  is  said. 
This  elvish  Dwarf  with  the  Baron  ^taid ; 
Little  he  ate,  and  less  he  spoke. 
Nor  mingled  with  the  menial  flock ; 
And  oft  apart  his  arms  he  tossed. 
And  often  muttered,  "Lost!   lost!   lost!" 
He  was  waspish,  arch,  and  litherlie, 
But  well  Lord  Cranstoun  served  he: 


38  I'AY    OF    THE 

And  he  of  his  service  was  full  fain ; 
For  once  had  he  been  ta'en  or  slain, 

An'  it  had  not  been  his  ministry. 
All,  between  Home  and  Hermitage, 
Talked  of  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page. 

For  the  Baron  went  on  pilgrimage, 
And  took  with  him  this  elvish  Page, 

To  Mary's  chapel  of  the  Lowes : 
For  there,  beside  Our  Ladye's  lake, 
An  offering  he  had  sworn  to  make. 

And  he  would  pay  his  vows. 
But  the  Ladye  of  Branksome  gathered  a  band 
Of  the  best  that  would  ride  at  her  command. 

The  trysting  place  was  Newark  Lee. 
Wat  of  Harden  came  thither  amain, 
And  thither  came  John  of  Thirlestaine, 
And  thither  came  William  of  Deloraine  ; 
They  were  three  hundred  spears  and  three. 
Through  Douglas-burn,  up  Yarrow  stream. 
Their  horses  prance,  their  lances  gleam. 
They  came  to  St.  Mary's  lake  ere  day ; 
But  the  chapel  was  void,  and  the  Baron  away. 
They  burned  the  chapel  "for  very  rage. 
And  cursed  Lord  Cranstoun's  Goblin  Page. 

And  now,  in  Branksome's  good  green  wood, 
As  under  the  aged  oak  he  stood, 
_The  Baron's  courser  pricks  his  ears, 
As  if  a  distant  noise  he  hears. 
The  Dwarf  waves  his  long  lean  arm  on  high, 
And  signs  to  the  lovers  to  part  and  fly; 
No  time  was  then  to  vow  or  sigh. 


L.AST   MINSTREL.  99 

Fair  Margaret,  through  the  hazel  grove, 
Flew  like  the  startled  cushat-dove: 
The  Dwarf  the  stirrup  held  and  rein; 
Vaulted  the  knight  on  his  steed  amain, 
And,  pondering  deep  that  morning's  scene, 
Rode  eastward  through  the  hawthorns  green. 


While  thus  he  poured  the  lengthened  tale, 
The  Minstrel's  voice  began  to  fail: 
Full  slyly  smiled  the  observant  page. 
And  gave  the  withered  hand  of  age 
A  goblet,  crowned  with  mighty  wine. 
The  blood  of  Velez'  scorched  vine. 
He  raised  the  silver  cup  on  high. 
And,  while  the  big  drop  filled  his  eye, 
Prayed  God  to  bless,  the  Duchess  long, 
JAnd  all  who  cheered  a  son  of  song. 
The  attending  maidens  smiled  to  see, 
How  long,  how  deep,  how  zealously. 
The  precious  juice  the  minstrel  quaffed ; 
And  he,  emboldened  by  the  draught. 
Looked  gaily  back  to  them,  and  laughed. 
The  cordial  nectar  of  the  bowl 
Swelled  his  old  veins,  and  cheered  his  soulj 
A  lighter,  livelier  prelude  ran. 
Ere  thus  his  tale  again  began. 


40  LAY    OF    THE 


CANTO  THIRD. 

And  said  I  that  my  limbs  were  old ; 
And  said  I  that  my  blood  was  cold, 
And  that  my  kindly  fire  was  fled, 
And  my  poor  withered  heart  Avas  dead, 

And  that  I  might  not  sing  of  love  ?  - 
How  could  I  to  the  dearest  theme. 
That  ever  warmed  a  minstrel's  dream. 

So  foul,  so  false,  a  recreant  prove ! 
How  could  I  name  love's  very  name, 
Nor  wake  my  heart  to  notes  of  flame ! 


In  peace.  Love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed ; 

In  war,  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed ; 

In  halls,  in  gay  attire  is  seen ; 

In  hamlets,  dances  on  the  green. 

Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 

And  men  below,  and  saints  above ; 

For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love. 


So  thought  Lord  Cranstoun,  as  I  ween. 
While,  pondering  deep  the  tender  scene. 
He  rode  through  Branksome's  hawthorn  greeui, 
But  the  Page  shouted  wild  and  shrill  — 
And  scarce  his  helmet  could  he  don, 
When  downward  from  the  shady  hill 
A  stately  knight  came  pricking  on. 
That  warrior's  steed,  so  dapple-gray, 
Was  dark  with  sweat,  and  splashed  with  clay; 


LAST    MIIVSTREL.  41 

His  armour  red  with  many  a  stain: 
He  seemed  in  such  a  weary  plight, 
As  if  he  had  ridden  the  live-long  night ; 

For  it  was  William  of  Deloraine. 


But  no  whit  weary  did  he  seem, 

When,  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam. 

He  marked  the  crane  on  the  Baron's  crest; 

For  his  ready  spear  was  in  his  rest 

Few  were  the  words,  and  stern  and  high, 
That  marked  the  foeman's  feudal  hate ; 

For  question  fierce,  and  proud  reply, 
Gave  signal  soon  of  dire  debate. 
Their  very  coursers  seemed  to  know 
That  each  was  other's  mortal  foe ; 
And  snorted  fire,  when  wheeled  around, 
To  give  each  knight  his  vantage  ground. 


In  rapid  round  the  Baron  bent; 

He  sighed  a  sigh,  and  prayed  a  prayer: 
The  prayer  was  to  his  patron  saint, 

The  sigh  was  to  his  ladye  fair. 
Stout  Deloraine  nor  sighed,  nor  prayed, 
Nor  saint,  nor  ladye  called  to  aid ; 
But  he  stooped  his  head,  and  couche4  his  spear, 
And  spurred  his  steed  to  full  career. 
The  meeting  of  these  champions  proud 
Seemed  like  the  burstingr  thunder-cloud. 


Stem  was  the  dint  the  Borderer  lent! 
The  stately  Baron  backwards  bent ; 

4* 


4^  LAY    OF    THE 

Bent  backwards  to  his  horse's  tail, 

And  his  plumes  went  scattering  on  the  gale; 

The  tough  ash  spear,  so  stout  and  true, 

Into  a  thousand  flinders  flew. 

But  Cranstoun's  lance,  of  more  avail. 

Pierced  through,  like  silk,  the  Borderer's  mail ; 

Through  shield,  and  jack,  and  acton,  past, 

Deep  in  his  bosom  broke  at  last. — 

Still  sate  the  warrior  saddle-fast, 

Till,  stumbling  m  the  mortal  shock, 

Down  went  the  steed,  the  girthing  broke, 

Hurled  on  a  heap  lay  man  and  horse. 

The  Baron  onward  passed  his  course : 

Nor  knew  —  so  giddy  rolled  his  brain  — 

His  foe  lay  stretched  upon  the  plain. 

But  when  he  reined  his  courser  round, 
And  saw  his  foeman  on  the  ground 

Lie  senseless  as  the  bloody  clay. 
He  bade  his  page  to  staunch  the  wound. 

And  there  beside  the  Avarrior  stay. 
And  tend  him  in  his  doubtful  state. 
And  lead  him  to  Branksome  castle-gate; 
His  noble  mind  was  inly  moved 
For  the  kinsman  of  the  maid  he  loved. 
"This  shalt  thou  do  without  delay; 
No  longer  here  myself  may  stay: 
Unless  the  swifter  I  speed  away. 
Short  shrift  will  be  at  my  dying  day." 

Away  in  speed  Lord  Cranstoun  rode; 
The  Goblin-Page  behind  abode: 
His  lord's  command  he  ne'er  withstood, 
Though  small  his  pleasure  to  do  good. 


LAST    MINSTREL.  i 

As  the  corslet  off  he  took,  * 

The  Dwarf  espied  the  Mighty  Book ! 
Much  he  marvelled,  a  knight  of  pride 
Like  a  book-bosomed  priest  should  ride : 
He  thought  not  to  search  or  staunch  the  wound, 
Until  the  secret  he  had  found. 

The  iron  band,  the  iron  clasp, 

Resisted  long  the  elfin  grasp ; 

For  when  the  first  he  had  undone, 

It  closed  as  he  the  next  begun. 

Those  iron  clasps,  that  iron  band, 

Would  not  yield  to  unchristened  hand, 

Till  he  smeared  the  cover  o'er 

With  the  Borderer's  curdled  gore; 

A  moment  then  the  volume  spread. 

And  one  short  spell  therein  he  read. 

It  had  much  of  glamour  might. 

Could  make  a  lady  seem  a  knight; 

The  cobwebs  on  a  dungeon  wall. 

Seem  tapestry  in  lordly  hall ; 

A  nut-shell  seem  a  gilded  barge, 

Sheeling  seem  a  palace  large. 

And  youth  seem  age,  and  age  seem  youth  — 

All  was  delusion,  naught  was  truth. 

He  had  not  read  another  spell. 
When  on  his  cheek  a  buflfet  fell, 
So  fierce,  it  stretched  him  on  the  plain, 
Beside  the  wounded  Deloraine. 
From  the  ground  he  rose  dismayed, 
And  shook  his  huge  and  matted  head ; 
One  wOTd  he  uttered,, and  no  more  — 
"  Man  of  asre,  thou  smitest  sore ! " 


44  liAY    OF    THE 

No  more  the  Elfin  Page  durst  try 

Into  the  wondrous  Book  to  pry; 

The  clasps,  though  smeared  with  Christian  gore, 

Shut  faster  than  they  were  before. 

He  hid  it  underneath  his  cloak. — 

Now,  if  you  ask  who  gave  the  stroke, 

I  cannot  tell,  so  mot  I  thrive ; 

It  was  not  given  by  man  alive. 

Unwillingly  he  himself  addressed, 

To  do  his  master's  high  behest: 

He  lifted  up  the  living  corse, 

And  laid  it  on  the  weary  horse ; 

He  led  him  into  Branksome  hall, 

Before  the  beards  of  the  warders  all; 

And  each  did  after  swear  and  say. 

There  only  passed  a  wain  of  hay. 

He  took  him  to  Lord  David's  tower, 

Even  to  the  Ladye's  secret  bower ; 

And,  but  that  stronger  spells  were  spread. 

And  the  door  might  not  be  opened, 

He  had  laid  him  on  her  very  bed. 

Whate'er  he  did  of  gramayre. 

Was  always  done  maliciously ; 

He  flung  the  warrior  on  the  ground. 

And  the  blood  welled  freshly  from  the  w(mnd. 

As  he  repassed  the  outer  court, 

He  spied  the  fair  young  child  at  sport; 

He  thought  to  train  him  to  the  wood; 

For,  at  a  word,  be  it  understood. 

He  was  always  for  ill,  and  never  for  good. 

Seemed  to  the  boy,  some  comrade  gay 

Led  him  forth  to  the  woods  to  play ; 


LAST   MINSTREL.  1 

On  the  draw-bridge  the  warders  stout 
Saw  a  terrier  and  lurcher  passing  out 

He  led  the  boy  o'er  bank  and  fell, 

Until  they  came  to  a  woodland  brook; 
The  running  .stream  dissolved  the  spell, 

And  his  own  elvish  shape  he  took. 
Could  he  have  had  his  pleasure  wilde. 
He  had  crippled  the  joints  of  the  noble  child ; 
Or,  with  his  fingers  long  and  lean. 
Had  strangled  him  in  fiendish  spleen: 
But  his  awful  mother  he  had  in  dread, 
And  also  his  power  was  limited; 
So  he  but  scowled  on  the  startled  child, 
And  darted  through  the  forest  wild; 
The  woodland  brook  he  bounding  crossed. 
And  laughed,  and  shouted,  "  Lost !  lost !  lost ! " 

Full  sore  amazed  at  the  wondrous  change, 

And  frightened,  as  a  child  might  be. 
At  the  wild  yell  and  visage  strange. 

And  the  dark  words  of  gramayre. 
The  child,  amidst  the  forest  bower. 
Stood  rooted  like  a  lilye  flower; 

And  when  at  length,  with  trembling  pace. 
He  sought  to  find  where  Branksome  lay, 

He  feared  to  see  that  grisly  face 
Glare  from  some-  thicket  on  his  way. 
Thus,  starting  oft,  he  jourriSyed  on. 
And  deeper  in  the  wood  is  gone, — 
For  aye  the  more  he  sought  his  way. 
The  farther  still  he  went  astray,— 
Until  he  heard  the  mountains  round 
Ring  to  the  baying  of  a  hound. 


4fii'  LAY    OF    THE 

And  hark!  and  hark!  the  deep-mouthed  bark 

Comes  nigher  still,  and  nigher; 
Bursts  OH  the  path  a  dark  blood-hound, 
His  tawny  muzzle  tracked  the  ground, 

And  his  red  eye  shot  fire. 
Soon  as  the  wildered  child  saw  he. 
He  flew  at  him  right  furiouslie. 
I  ween  you  would  have  seen  with  joy 
The  bearing  of  the  gallant  boy. 
When,  worthy  of  his  noble  sire. 
His  wet  cheek  glowed  'twixt  fear  and  ire  I 
He  faced  the  blood-hound  manfully. 
And  held  his  little  bat  on  high; 
So  fierce  he  struck,  the  dog,  afraid, 
At  cautious  distance  hoarsely  bayed, 

But  still  in  act  to  spring; 
When  dashed  an  archer  through  the  glade, 
And  when  he  saw  the  hound  was  stayed, 

He  .drew  his  tough  bowstring ; 
But  a  rough  voice  cried,  "Shoot  not,  hoy! 
Ho!  shoot  not,  Edward  — 'tis  a  boy!" 


The  speaker  issued  from  the  wood. 
And  checked  his  fellow's  surly  mood. 

And  quelled  the  ban-dog's  ire: 
He  was  an  English  yoeman  good, 

And  born  in  Lancashire. 
Well  could  he  hit  a  fallow  deer     - 

Five  hundred  feet  him  fro; 
With  hand  more  true,  and  eye  more  clear, 

No  archer  bended  bow. 
His  coal-black  hair,  shorn  round  and  close 

Set  off  his  sun-burned  face ; 


LAST    MINSTREL.  i 

Old  England's  sign,  St.  George's  cross, 

His  barret-cap  did  grace ; 
His  bugle-horn  hung  by  his  side. 

All  in  a  wolf-skin  baldric  tied ; 
And  his  short  faulchion,  sharp  and  clear, 
Had  pierced  the  throat  of  many  a  deer. 

His  kirtle,  made  of  forest  green. 

Reached  scantly  to  his  knee  ; 
And  at  his  belt,  of  arrows  keen 

A  furbished  sheaf  bore  he; 
His  buckler  scarce  in  breadth  a  span. 

No  longer  fence  had  he ; 
He  never  counted  him  a  man. 

Would  strike  below  the  knee  ; 
His  slackened  bow  was  in  his  hand, 
And  the  leash,  that  was  his  blood-hound's  band. 

He  would  not  do  the  fair  child  harm. 
But  held  him  with  his  powerful  arm, 
That  he  might  neither  fight  nor  flee ; 
For  when  the  Red-Cross  spied  he. 
The  boy  strove  long  and  violently. 
"Now,  by  St.  George,"  the  archer  cries, 
"Edward,  methinks  we  have  a  prize! 
This  boy's  fair  face,  and  courage  free. 
Shows  he  is  come  of  high  degree." 

"Yes!  I  am  come  of  high  degree, 

For  I  am  the  heir  of  bold  Buccleuch! 

And,  if  thou  dost  not  set  me  free. 
False  Suthron,  thou  shalt  dearly  rue! 

For  Walter  of  Harden  shall  come  with  speed, 

And  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need,    . 


48  LAY    OF    THE 

And  every  Scot  from  Esk  to  Tweed ; 
And  if  thou  dost  not  let  me  go, 
Despite  thy  arrows,  and  tliy  bow, 
I'll  have  thee  hanged  to  feed  the  crow!*' 

"  Gramercy,  for  thy  good  will,  fair  boy ! 
My  mind  was  never  set  so  high ; 
But  if  thou  art  chief  of  such  a  clan, 
And  art  the  son  of  such  a  man. 
And  ever  comest  to  thy  command. 

Our  wardens  had  need  to  keep  in  good  order : 
My  bow  of  yew  to  a  hazel  wand, 

Thou'lt  ma^e  them  work  upon  the  Border. 
Meantime,  be  pleased  to  come  with  me. 
For  good  Lord  Dacre  shalt  thou  see ; 
I  think  our  work  is  Avell  begun, 
When  we  have  taken  thy  father's  son." 

Although  the  child  was  led  away. 
In  Branksome  still  he  seemed  to  stay, 
For  so  the  Dwarf  his  part  did  play; 
And,  in  the  shape  of  that  young  boy, 
He  wrought  the  castle  much  annoy. 
The  comrades  of  the  young  Buccleuch 
He  pinched,  and  beat,  and  overthrew ; 
Nay,  some  of  them  he  well  nigh  slew. 
He  tore  Dame  Maudlin's  silken  tie; 
And,  as  Sym  Hall  stood  by  the  fire. 
He  lighted  the  match  of  his  bandelier. 
And  woefully  scorched  the  hackbutteer. 
It  may  hardly  be  thought,  or  said. 
The  mischief  that  the  urchin  made, 
Till  many  of  the  castle  guessed, 
That  the  young  Baron  was  possessed. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  ^ 

Well  I  ween,  the  charm  he  held 
The  noble  lady  had  soon  dispelled ; 
But  she  was  deeply  busied  then 
To  tend  the  wounded  Deloraine. 

Much  she  wondered  to  find  him  lie, 
On  the  stone  threshold  stretched  along; 

She  thought  some  spirit  of  the  sky 
Had  done  the  bold  moss-trooper  wrong, 
Because,  despite  her  precept  dread. 
Perchance  he  in  the  Book  had  read ; 
But  the  broken  lance  in  his  bosom  stood. 
And  it  was  earthly  steel  and  wood. 

She  drew  the  splinter  from  the  wound. 

And  with  a  charm  she  staunched  the  blood; 

She  bade  the  gash  be  cleansed  and  bound: 
No  longer  by  his  couch  she  stood; 

But  she  had  ta'en  the  broken  lance, 
And  washed  it  from  the  clotted  gore. 
And  salved  the  splinter  o'er  and  o'er. 

William  of  Deloraine  in  trance, 

Whene'er  she  turned  it  round  and  round, 
Twisted,  as  if  she  galled  his  wound. 
Then  to  her  maidens  she  did  say. 
That  he  should  be  whole  man  and  sound, 
Within  the  course  of  a  night  and  day. 

Full  long  she  toiled;  for  she  did  rue 

Mishap  to  friend  so  stout  and  true. 

So  passed  tlie  day  —  the  evening  fell, 

'Twas  near  the  time  of  curfew  bell;  ' 

The  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  calm. 

The  stream  was  smooth,  the  dew  was  balm^ 
5 


50  LAY    OF    THE 

E'en  the  rude  watchman,  on  the  tower, 
Enjoyed  and  blessed  the  lovely  hour. 
Far  more  fair  Margaret  loved  and  blessed 
The  hour  of  silence  and  of  rest. 
On  the  high  turret  sitting  lone, 
She  waked  at  times  the  lute's  soft  tone  ; 
Touched  a  wild  note,  and  all  between 
Thought  of  the  bower  of  hawthorns  green ; 
Her  golden  hair  streamed  free  from  band. 
Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand, 
Her  blue  eyes  sought  the  Avest  afar. 
For  lovers  love  the  western  star. 

Is  yon  the  star,  o'er  Penchryst  Pen, 

That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken. 

And,  spreading  broad  its  wavering  light. 

Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  night  ? 

Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star?  — 

O  'tis  the  beacon-blaze  of  war ! 

Scarce  could  she  draw  her  tightened  breath; 

For  well  she  knew  the  fire  of  death ! 

The  warder  viewed  it  blazing  strong. 
And  blew  his  war-note  loud  and  long, 
Till,  at  the  high  and  haughty  sound, 
Rock,  wood,  and  river,  rung  around. 
The  blast  alarmed  the  festal  hall, 
And  startled  forth  the  warriors  all ; 
Far  downward,  in  the  castle-yard. 
Full  many  a  torch  and  cresset  glared ; 
And  helms  and  plumes,  confusedly  tossed, 
Were  in  the  blaze  half-seen,  half-lost ; 
And  spears  in  wild  disorder  shook, 
Like  reeds  beside  a  frozen  brook. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  i 

The  Seneschal,  whose  silver  hair 

Was  reddened  by  the  torches'  glare, 

Stood  in  the  midst,  with  gesture  proud, 

And  issued  forth  his  mandates  loud. — 

"  On  Penchryst  glows  a  bale  of  fire, 

And  three  are  kindling  on  Priesthaughswire ; 

Ride  out,  ride  out, 

The  foe  to  scout ! 
Mount,  mount  for  Branksome,  every  man ; 
Thou,  Todrig,  warn  the  Johnstone  clan. 

That  ever  are  true  and  stout  — 
Ye  need  not  send  to  Liddesdale ; 
For,  when  they  see  the  blazing  bale, 
Elliots  and  Armstrongs  never  fail.  — 
Ride,  Alton,  ride,  for  death  and  life. 
And  warn  the  warden  of  the  strife. 
Young  Gilbert,  let  our  beacon  blaze, 
Our  kin,  and  clan,  and  friends,  to  raise." 


Fair  Margaret,  from  the  turret  head. 
Heard,  far  below,  the  coursers'  tread. 

While  loud  the  harness  rung. 
As  to  their  seats  with  clamor  dread. 

The  ready  horsemen  sprung ; 
And  trampling  hoofs,  and  iron  coats. 
And  leaders'  voices  mingled  notes. 
And  out !  and  out ! 
In  hasty  route. 

The  horsemen  galloped  forth; 
Dispersing  to  the  south  to  scout. 

And  east,  and  west,  and  north, 
To  view  their  coming  enemies. 
And  warn  their  vassals  and  allies. 


LAY    OF    THE 

The  ready  page,  with  hurried  hand, 
Awaked  the  need-fire's  slumbering  brand, 

And  ruddy  blushed  the  heaven: 
For  a  sheet  of  flame,  from  the  turret  high, 
Waved  like  a  blood-flag  on  the  sky. 

All  flaring  and  uneven, 
And  soon  a  score  of  fires,  I  ween, 
From  height,  and  hill,  and  cliff,  were  seen ; 
Each  with  warlike  tidings  fraught; 
Each  from  each  the  signal  caught; 
Each  after  each  they  glanced  to  sight, 
As  stars  arise  upon  the  night. 
They  gleamed  on  many  a  dusky  tarn 
Haunted  by  the  lonely  earn; 
On  many  a  cairn's  gray  pyramid. 
Where  urns  of  mighty  chiefs  lie  hid ; 
Till  high  Dunedin  the  blazes  saw, 
From  Soltra  and  Dumpender  Law ; 
And  Lothian  heard  the  Regent's  order, 
That  all  should  bowne  them  for  the  Border. 


The  livelong  night  in  Branksome  rang 

The  ceaseless  sound  of  steel ; 
The  castle-bell,  with  backward  clang, 

Sent  forth  the  'larum  peal; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  heavy  jar ; 
Where  massy  stone  and  iron  bar 
Were  piled  on  echoing  keep  and  tower. 
To  whelm  the  foe  with  deadly  shower ; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  changing  guard. 
And  watchword  from  the  sleepless  ward; 
While,  wearied  by  the  endless  din, 
Blood-hound  and  ban-dog  yelletl  within. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  .59 

The  noble  Dame,  amid  the  broil, 
Shared  the  gray  Seneschal's  high  toil. 
And  spoke  of  danger  with  a  smile ; 
Cheered  the  young  knights,  and  council  sage 
Held  with  the  chiefs  of  riper  age. 
No  tidings  of  the  foe  were  brought, 
Nor  of  his  numbers  knew  they  aught, 
Nor  in  what  time  the  truce  he  sought 

Some  said,  that  there  were  thousands  ten, 
And  others  weened  that  it  was  naught 
But  Leven  Clans,  or  Tynedale  men. 
Who  came  to  gather  in  black  mail; 
And  Liddesdale,  with  small  avail. 

Might  drive  them  lightly  back  agen. 
So  passed  the  anxious  night  away, 
And  welcome  was  the  peep  of  day. 


Ceasi^  the  high  sound  —  the  listening  throng 

Applaud  the  Master  of  the  Song; 

And  marvel  much,  in  helpless  age. 

So  hard  should  be  his  pilgrimage. 

Had  he  no  friend  —  no  daughter  dear. 

His  wandering  toil  to  share  and  cheer; 

No  son,  to  be  his  father's  stay. 

And  guide  him  on  the  rugged  way?  — 

"  Aye  !  once  he  had  —  but  he  was  dead  !  " 

Upon  the  harp  he  stooped  his  head. 

And  busied  himself  the  strings  withal. 

To  hide  the  tear,  that  fain  would  fall. 

In  solemn  measure,  soft  and  slow. 

Arose  a  father's  notes  of  woe. 

5* 


54 


LAY    OF    THE 


CANTO  FOURTH. 


pv^wEET  Teviot!  on  thy  silver  tide 

The  glaring  bale-fires  blaze  no  more; 
No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 

Along  thy  wild  and  willowed  shore; 
Where'er  thou  wind'st  by  dale  or  hill, 
All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still, 

As  if  thy  waves,  since  Time  was  born, 
Since  first  they  rolled  upon  the  Tweed, 
I^ad  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed. 

Nor  started  at  the  bugle-horn. 


Unlike  the  tide  of  human  time, 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless  flow, 

Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime. 

Its  earliest  course  was  doomed  to  know. 
And,  darker  as  -it  downward  bears. 
Is  stained  with  past  and  present  tears. 

Low  as  that  tide  has  ebbed  with  me, 
It  still  reflects  to  memory's  eye 
The  hour,  my  brave,  my  only  boy,  - 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee. 
Why,  when  the  volleying  musket  played 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade. 
Why  was  not  I  beside  him  laid!  — 
Enough  —  he  died  the  death  of  fame ; 
Enough  —  he  died  with  conquering  Graeme. 


Now  over  Border  dale  and  fell. 

Full  wide  ^nd  far  was  terror  spread ; 

For  pathless  marsh,  and  mountain  cell. 
The  peasant  left  his  lowly  shed. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  55 

The  frightened  flocks  and  herds  were  pent 
Beneath  the  peel's  rude  battlement; 
And  maids  and  matrons  dropped  the  tear, 
While  ready  warriors  seized  the  spear. 
From  Branksome's  towers,  the  watchman's  eye 
Dun  wreaths  of  distant  smoke  can  spy. 
Which,  curling  in  the  rising  sun, 
Showed  southern  ravage  was  begun. 

Now  loud  the  heedful  gate-ward  cried -^ 

"Prepare  ye  all  for  blows  and  blood! 
Watt  Tinlinn,  from  the  Liddle-side, 
Comes  wading  through  the  flood. 
Full  oft  the  Tynedale  snatchers  knock 
At  his  lone  gate,  and  prove  the  lock ; 
It  was  but  last  St.  Barnabright 
They  'sieged  hun  a  whole  summer  night, 
But  fled  at  morning;  well  they  knew. 
In  vain  he  never  twanged  the  yew. 
Right  sharp  has  been  the  evening  shower, 
That  drove  him  from  his  Liddle  tower; 
And,  by  my  faith,"  the  gate-ward  said, 
"I  think  'twill  prove  a  Warden-Raid." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  the  bold  yoeman 
Entered  the  echoing  barbican. 
He  led  a  small  and  shaggy  nag. 
That  through  a  bog,  from  hag  to  hag, 
Could  bound  like  any  Bilhope  stag; 
It  bore  his  wife  and  children  twain ; 
A  half-clothed  serf  was  all  then:  train; 
His  wife,  stout,  ruddy,  and  dark-browed, 
Of  silver  brooch  and  bracelet  proud. 
Laughed  to  her  friends  among  the  crowd. 


56^  LAY    OF    THE 

He  was  of  stature  passing  tall, 
But  sparely  formed,  and  lean  withal: 
A  battered  morion  on  his  brow; 
A  leathern  jack,  as  fence  enow, 
•   On  his  broad  shoulders  loosely  hung; 
A  border-axe  behind  was  slung; 

His  spear,  six  Scottish  ells  in  length, 
Seemed  newly  dyed  with  gore ; 

His  shafts  and  bow,  of  wondrous  strength, 
His  hardy  partner  bore. 

Thus  to  the  Ladye  did  Tinlinn  show 

The  tidings  of  the  English  foe:  — 

"Belted  Will  Howard  is  marching  here. 

And  Lord  Dacre,  with  many  a  spear. 

And  all  the  German  hagbut-men. 

Who  long  have  lain  at  Askertain : 

They  crossed  the  Liddle  at  curfew  hour. 

And  burned  my  little  lonely  tower ; 

The  fiend  receive  their  souls  therefor! 

It  had  not  been  burnt  this  year  or  more. 

Barn-yard  and  dwelling,  blazing  bright, 

Served  to  guide  me  on  my  flight ; 

But  I  was  chased  the  live-long  night 

Black  John  of  Akeshaw,  and  Fergus  Grseme, 

Fast  upon  my  traces  came, 

Until  I  turned  at  Priesthaugh-Scrogg, 

And  shot  their  horses  in  the  bog. 

Slew  Fergus  with  my  lance  outright  — 

I  had  him  long  at  high  despite: 

He  drove  my  cows  last  Fastern's  night" 

Now  weary  scouts  from  Liddesdale, 
Fast  hurrying  in,  confirmed  the  tale; 


LAST   MINSTREL.  9* 

As  far  as  they  could  judge  by  ken, 

Three  hours  would  bring  to  Teviot's  strand 
Three  thousand  armed  Englishmen.  — 
Meanwhile,  full  many  a  warlike  band, 
From  Teviot,  Aill,  and  Ettrick  shade, 
Came  in,  their  Chief's  defence  to  aid. 

From  fair  St.  Mary's  silver  wave. 

From  dreary  Gamescleuch's  dusky  height, 
His  ready  lances  Thirlestane  brave 

Arrayed  beneatli  a  banner  bright. 
The  treasured  fleur-de-luce  he  claims 
To  wreathe  his  shield,  since  royal  James, 
Encamped  by  Fala's  mossy  wave, 
The  proud  distinction  grateful  gave. 

For  faith  mid  feudal  jars  ; 
What  time,  save  Thirlestane  alone. 
Of  Scotland's  stubborn  barons  none 

Would  march  to  southern  wars  ; 
And  hence,  in  fair  remembrance  worn, 
Yon  sheaf  of  spears  his  crest  has  borne ; 
Hence  his  high  motto  shines  revealed, — 
"Ready,  aye  ready,"  for  the  field. 

An  aged  knight,  to  danger  steeled. 

With  many  a  moss-trooper,  came  on. 
And  azure  in  a  golden  field. 
The  stars  and  crescent  graced  his  shield, 

Without  the  bend  of  Murdieston. 
Wide  lay  his  lands  round  Oakwood  tower, 
And  wide  round  haunted  Castle-Ower: 
High  over  Borthwick's  mountain  flood. 
His  wood-embosomed  mansion  stood ; 


58  LAY    OF    THE 

In  the  dark  glen,  so  deep  below, 
The  herds  of  plundered  England  low  j 
His  bold  retainers'  daily  food, 
And  bought  with  danger,  blows,  and  blood. 
Marauding  chief!  his  sole  delight 
The  moonlight  raid,  the  morning  fight; 
Not  even  the  Flower  of  Yarrow's  charms, 
In  youth,  might  tame  his  rage  for  arms ; 
And  still,  in  age,  he  spurned  at  rest. 
And  still  his  brows  the  helmet  pressed, 
Albeit  the  blanched  locks  below 
Were  white  as  Dinlay's  spotless  snow: 

Five  stately  warriors  drew  the  sword 
Before  their  father's  band ; 

A  braver  knight  than  Harden's  lord 
Ne'er  belted  on  a  brand. 

Whitslade  the  Hawk,  and  Headshaw  came, 
And  warriors  more  than  I  may  name ; 
From  Yarrow-cleuch  to  Hindhaugh-swair, 

From  Woodhouselie  to  Chester-glen, 
Trooped  man  and  horse,  and  bow  and  spear; 

Their  gathering  word  was  Bellenden. 
And  better  hearts  o'er  Border  sod 
To  siege  or  rescue  never  rode. 

The  Ladye  marked  the  aids  come  in. 
And  high  her  heart  of  pride  arose  ; 
She  bade  her  youthful  son  attend. 
That  he  might  know  his  father's  friend, 

And  learn  to  face  his  foes. 
"The  boy  is  ripe  to  look  on  war: 

I  saw  him  draw  a  cross-bow  stiff. 
And  his  true  arrow  struck  afar 
The  raven's  nest  upon  the  cliff; 


LAST   MINSTREL.  I 

The  Red  Cross,  on  a  southern  breast, 
Is  broader  than  the  raven's  nest :    [to  wield. 
Thou,  Whitslade,  shalt  teach  him  his  weapon 
And  o'er  him  hold  his  father's  shield." 

Well  may  you  think,  the  wily  Page 
Cared  not  to  face  the  Ladye  sage. 
He  counterfeited  childish  fear. 
And  shrieked,  and  shed  full  many  a  tear. 

And  moaned  and  plained  in  manner  wild. 
The  attendants  to  the  Ladye  told, 

Some  fairy,  sure,  had  changed  the  child, 
That  wont  be  so  free  and  bold. 
Then  wrathful  was  the  noble  Dame; 
She  blushed  blood-red  for  very  shame;  — 
"Hence!  ere  the  clan  his  faintness  view; 
Hence  with  the  weakling  to  Buccleuch!  — 
Watt  Tinlinn,  thou  shalt  be  his  guide 
To  Rangleburn's  lonely  side. —  ' 

Sure  some  fell  fiend  has  cursed  our  line, 
That  coward  should  e'er  be  son  of  mine!" 

A  heavy  task  Watt  Tinlinn  had, 
To  guide  the  counterfeited  lad. 
Soon  as  his  palfrey  felt  the  weight 
Of  that  illl-omen'd  elvish  freight. 
He  bolted,  sprung,  and  reared  amain. 
Nor  heeded  bit,  nor  curb,  nor  rein. 
It  cost  Watt  Tinlinn  mickle  toil 
To  drive  him  but  a  Scottish  mile; 

But,  as  a  shallow  brook  they  crossed, 
The  elf,  amid  the  running  stream, 
His  figure  changed,  like  form  in  dream. 

And  fled,  and  shouted,  "Lost!  lost!  lost  I* 


60  LAY    OF    THE 

Full  fast  the  urchin  ran  and  laughed, 

But  faster  still  a  cloth-yard  shaft 

Whistled  from  startled  Tinlinn's  yew, 

And  pierced  his  shoulder  through  and  through. 

Although  the  imp  might  not  be  slain, 

And  though  the  wound  soon  healed  again, 

Yet,  as  he  ran,  he  yelled  for  pain ; 

And  Watt  of  Tinlinn,  much  aghast. 

Rode  back  to  ^ranksome  fiery  fast 

Soon  on  the  hilFs  steep  verge  he  stood. 
That  looks  o'er  Branksome's  towers  and  wood ; 
■  And  martial  murmurs,  from  below. 
Proclaimed  the  approaching  southern  foe. 
Through  the  dark  wood,  in  mingled  tone, 
Were  Border-pipes  and  bugles  blown ; 
The  coursers'  neighing  he  could  ken, 
And  measured  tread  of  marching  men ; 
While  broke  at  times  the  solemn  hum, 
The  Almayn's  sullen  kettle-drum : 
And  banners  tall,  of  crimson  sheen, 

Above  the  copse  appear ; 
And,  glistening  through  the  hawthorns  green, 
Shine  helm,  and  shield,  and  spear. 

Light  forayers  first,  to  view  the  ground. 
Spurred  their  fleet  coursers  loosely  round; 
Behind,  in  close  array  and  fast. 

The  Kendal  archers,  all  in  green, 
Obedient  to  the  bugle  blast, 

Advancing  from  the  wood  are  seen. 
To  back  and  guard  the  archer-band. 
Lord  Dacre's  bill-men  were  at  hand; 


LAST    MINSTREL. 

A  hardy  race,  on  Irthing  bred, 
With  kirtles  white,  and  crosses  red, 
Arrayed  beneath  the  banner  tall, 
That  streamed  o'er  Acre's  conquered  wall; 
And  minstrels,  as  they  marched  in  order, 
Played,   "Noble  Lord  Dacre,  he  dwells   on 
the  Border." 

Behind  the  English  bill  and  bow, 
The  mercenaries,  firm  and  slow. 

Moved  on  to  fight,  in  dark  array. 
By  Conrad  led  of  Wolfenstein, 
Who  brought  the  band  from  distant  Rhine, 

And  sold  their  blood  for  foreign  pay. 
The  camp  their  home,  their  law  the  sword. 
They  knew  no  country,  owned  no  lord: 
They  were  not  armed  like  England's  sons. 
But  bore  the  levin-darting  guns  ; 
Buff-coats,  all  frounced  and  bordered  o'er. 
And  morsing-horns  and  scarfs  they  wore ; 
Each  better  knee  was  bared,  to  aid 
The  warriors  in  the  escalade ; 
All,  as  they  marched,  in  rugged  tongue. 
Songs  of  Teutonic  feuds  they  sung. 


m 


But  louder  still  the  clamor  grew. 
And  louder  still  the  minstrels  blew. 
When,  from  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
Rode  forth  Lord  Howard's  chivalry; 
His  men  at  arms,  with  glaive  and  spear. 
Brought  up  the  battle's  glittering  rear. 
There  many  a  youthful  knight,  full  keen 
To  gain  his  spurs,  in  arms  was  seen ; 


LAY    OF    THE 

With  favor  in  his  crest,  or  glove, 

Memorial  of  his  ladye-love. 

So  rode  they  forth  in  fair  array. 

Till  full  their  lengthened  lines  display; 

Then  called  a  halt,  and  made  a  stand, 

And  cried,  "St  George,  for  merry  England!** 

Now  every  English  eye,  intent, 
On  Branksome's  armed  towers  was  bent ; 
So  near  they  were,  that  they  might  know 
The  straining  harsh  of  each  cross-bow ; 
On  battlement  and  bartizan 
Gleamed  axe,  and  spear,  and  partizan ; 
Falcon  and  culver,  on  each  tower. 
Stood  prompt  their  deadly  hail  to  shower; 
And  flashing  annor  frequent  broke 
From  eddying  whirls  of  sable  smoke. 
Where,  upon  tower  and  turret  head. 
The  seething  pitch  and  molten  lead 
Reeked,  like  a  witch's  caldron  red. 
While  yet  they  gaze,  the  bridges  fall, 
The  wicket  opes,  and  from  the  wall 
Rides  forth  the  hoary  Seneschal. 

Armed  he  rode,  all  save  the  head, 

His  white  beard  o'er  his  breast-plate  spread; 

Unbroke  by  age,  erect  his  seat. 

He  ruled  his  eager  courser's  gait ; 

Forced  him,  with  chastened  fire,  to  prance, 

And,  high  curvetting,  low  advance : 

In  sign  of  truce,  his  better  hand 

Displayed  a  peeled  yellow  wand; 

His  squire,  attending  in  the  rear, 

Bore  high  a  gauntlet  on  a  spear. 


LAST    MINSTREL, 

When  they  espied  him  riding  out, 
Lord  Howard  and  Lord  Dacre  stout 
Sped  to  the  front  of  their  array, 
To  hear  what  this  old  knight  should  say. 

"Ye  English  warden  lords,  of  you 
Demands  the  Ladye  of  Buccleuch, 
Why,  'gainst  the  truce  of  Border-tide, 
In  hostile  guise  ye  dare  to  ride. 
With  Kendal  bow,  and  Gisland  brand, 
And  all  your  mercenary  band. 
Upon  the  bounds  of  fair  Scotland? 
My  Ladye  reads  you  swith  return; 
And,  if  but  one  poor  straw  you  bum, 
Or  do  our  towers  so  much  molest. 
As  scare  one  swallow  from  her  nest, 
St.  Mary!  but  we'll  light  a  brand. 
Shall  warm  your  hearths  in  Cumberland." 

A  wrathful  man  was  Dacre's  lord. 
But  calmer  Howard  took  the  word:  — 
"May't  please  thy  Dame,  Sir  Seneschal, 
To  seek  the  castle's  outward  wall ; 
Our  pursuviant-at-arms  shall  show 
Both  why  we  came,  and  when  we  go." 
The  message  sped,  the  noble  Dame 
To  the  walls'  outward  circle  came  ; 
Each  chief  around  leaned  on  his  spear, 
To  see  the  pursuviant  appear. 
All  in  Lord  Howard's  livery  dressed. 
The  lion  argent  decked  his  breast; 
He  led  a  boy  of  blooming  hue  — 
O  sight  to  meet  a  mother's  view! 
It  was  the  heir  of  great  Buccleuch. 


LAY    OF    THE 

Obeisance  meet  the  herald  made, 
And  thus  his  master's  will  he  said. 

"It  irks,  high  Dame,  my  noble  Lords, 

'Gainst  ladye  fair  to  draw  their  swords: 

But  yet  they  may  not  tamely  see, 

AH  through  the  western  wardenry, 

Your  law-contemning  kinsmen  ride. 

And  burn  and  spoil  the  Border-side ; 

And  ill  beseems  your  rank  and  birth 

To  make  your  towers  a  flemens-firth. 

We  claim  from  thee  William  of  Deloraine^ 

That  he  may  suffer  march-treason  pain : 

It  was  but  last  St.  Cuthbert's  even 

Me  pricked  to  Stapleton  on  Leven, 

Harried  the  lands  of  Richard  Musgrave, 

And  slew  his  brother  by  dint  of  glaive. 

Then,  since  a  lone  and  widowed  Dame 

These  restless  riders  may  not  tame, 

Either  receive  within  thy  towers 

Two  hundred  of  my  master's  powers, 

Or  straight  they  sound  their  warrion. 

And  storm  and  spoil  thy  garrison; 

(A.nd  this  fair  boy,  to  London  led, 

Sliall  good  King  Edward's  page  be  bred.^ 

He  ceased  —  and  loud  the  boy  did  cry, 
And  stretched  his  little  arms  on  high  ; 
Implored  for  aid  each  well-known  face, 
And  strove  to  seek  the  Dame's  embrace. 
A  moment  changed  that  Ladye's  cheer. 
Gushed  to  her  eye  the  unbidden  tear; 
She  gazed  upon  the  leaders  round. 
And  dark  and  sad  each  warrior  frowned ; 


LAST    MINSTREL.  '  ^ 

Then,  deep  within  her  sobbing  breast 
She  locked  the  struggling  sigh  to  rest ; 
Unaltered  and  collected  stood, 
And  thus  replied,  in  dauntless  mood. 

"Say  to  your  Lords  of  high  emprize, 

Who  war  on  women  and  on  boys, 

That  either  William  of  Deloraine 

Will  cleanse  him,  by  oath,  of  march-treason  stain, 

Or  else  he  Avill  the  combat  take 

'Gainst  Musgrave,  for  his  honor's  sake. 

No  knight  in  Cumberland  so  good. 

But  William  may  count  with  him  kin  and  blood. 

Knighthood  he  took  of  Douglas'  sword. 

When  English  blood  swelled  Ancram  ford ; 

And  but  that  Lord  Dacre's  steed  was  wight, 

And  bare  him  ably  on  the  flight. 

Himself  had  seen  him  dubbed  a  knight 

For  the  young  heir  of  Branksome's  line, 

God  be  his  aid,  and  God  be  mine : 

Through  me  no  friend  shall  meet  his  doom ; 

Here  while  I  live,  no  foe  finds  room. 

Then,  if  thy  lords  their  purpose  urge, 
Take  otir  defiance  loud  and  high ; 

Our  slogan  is  their  lyke-wake  dirge, 

Our  moat,  the  grave  where  they  shall  lie." 

'^ 
Proud  she  looked  round,  applause  to  claim  — 
Then  lightened  Thirlestane's  eye  of  flame; 

His  bugle  Watt  of  Harden  blew; 
Pensils  and  pennons  wide  were  flung, 
To  heaven  the  Border  slogan  rung, 

"St.  Mary  for  the  young  Buccleuch!" 


66  LAY    OF    THE 

The  English  war-cry  answered  wide, 
And  forward  bent  each  southern  spear; 

Each  Kendal  archer  made  a  stride, 
And  drew  the  bow-string  to  his  ear: 

Each  minstrel's  war-note  loud  was  blown; 

But,  ere  a  gray-goose  shaft  had  flown, 
A  horseman  galloped  from  the  rear. 


"Ah!  noble  Lords!"  he,  breathless,  said, 
"What  treason  has  your  march  betrayed? 
What  make  you  here,  from  aid  so  far. 
Before  you  walls,  around  you  war? 
Your  foemen  triumph  in  the  thought. 
That  in  the  toils  the  lion's  caught 
Already  on  dark  Ruberslaw 
The  Douglas  holds  his  weapon-schaw : 
The  lances,  waving  in  his  train. 
Clothe  the  dun  heath  like  autumn  grain 
And  on  the  Liddle's  northern  strand, 
To  bar  retreat  to  Cumberland, 
Lord  Maxwell  ranks  his  merry-men  good 
Beneath  the  eagle  and  the  rood; 

And  Jedwood,  Eske,  and  Teviotdale, 
Have  to  proud  Angus  come ; 

And  all  the  Merse  and  Lauderdale 
Have  risen  with  haughty  Home. 

An  exile  from  Northumberland, 
In  Liddesdale  I've  wandered  long; 

But  still  my  heart  was  with  merry  England, 
And  cannot  brook  my  country's  wrong, 
And  hard  I've  spurred  all  night  to  show 
The  mustering  of  the  coming  foe." 


LAST    MINSTREL.  ^ 

"  And  let  them  come ! "  fierce  Dacre  cried ; 
"For  soon  yon  crest,  my  father's  pride, 
That  swept  the  shores  of  Judah's"  sea, 
And  waved  in  gales  of  Galilee, 
From  Branksome's  liighest  towers  displayed. 
Shall  mock  the  rescue's  lingering  aid!  — 
Level  each  harquebuss  on  row; 
Draw,  merry  archers,  draw  the  bow ; 
Up,  bill-men,  to  the  walls,  and  cry, 
Dacre  for  England,  win  or  die ! " 

"Yet  hear,"  quoth  Howard,  "calmly  hear, 

Nor  deem  my  words  the  words  of  fear : 

For  who  in  field  or  foray  slack 

Saw  the  blanche  lion  e'er  fall  back? 

But  thus  to  risk  our  Border  flower 

In  strife  against  a  kingdom's  power. 

Ten  thousand  Scots  'gainst  thousands  three. 

Cartes,  were  desperate  policy. 

Nay,  take  the  terms  the  Ladye  made. 

Ere  conscious  of  the  advancing  aid  : 

Let  Musgrave  meet  fierce  Deloraine 

In  single  fight;  and  if  he  gain. 

He  gains  for  us ;  but  if  he's  crossed, 

'Tis  but  a  single  warrior  lost ; 

The  rest,  retreating  as  they  came. 

Avoid  defeat,  and  death,  and  shame." 

Ill  could  the  haughty  Dacre  brook 
His  brother-warden's  sage  rebuke; 
And  yet  his  forward  step  he  staid, 
And  slow  and  sullenly  obeyed : 
But  ne'er  again  the  Border  side 
Did  these  two  lords  in  friendship  ride; 


LAY    OF    THE 

And  this  slight  discontent,  men  say, 
Cost  blood  upon  another  day. 

The  pursuivant-at-arms  again 

Before  the  castle  took  his  stand; 
His  trumpet  called,  with  parleying  strain, 

The  leaders  of  the  Scottish  band ; 
And  he  defied,  in  Musgrave's  right, 
Stout  Deloraine  to  single  fight; 
A  gauntlet  at  their  feet  he  laid. 
And  thus  the  terras  of  fight  he  said:  — 
"If  in  the  lists  good  Musgrave's  sword 

Vanquish  the  knight  of  Deloraine, 
Your  youthful  chieftain,  Branksome's  lord. 

Shall  hostage  for  his  clan  remain: 
/if  Deloraine  foil  good  Musgrave, 
The  boy  his  liberty  shall  have. 

Howe'er  it  falls,  the  English  band, 
Unharming  Scots,  by  Scots  unharmed. 
In  peaceful  march,  like  men  unarmed. 

Shall  straight  retreat  to  Cumberland." 

Unconscious  of  the  near  relief. 

The  proffer  pleased  each  Scottish  chief. 

Though  much  the  Ladye  sage  gainsayed: 
For  though  their  hearts  were  brave  and  true, 
From  Jedwood's  recent  sack  they  knew. 

How  tardy  was  the  regent's  aid; 
And  you  may  guess  the  noble  Dame 

Durst  not  the  secret  prescience  own. 
Sprung  from  the  art  she  might  not  name. 

By  which  the  coming  help  was  known. 
Closed  was  the  compact,  and  agreed 
That  lists  should  be  enclosed  with  speed 


LAST   MINSTREL. 

Beneath  the  castle  on  a  lawn : 
They  fixed  the  morrow  for  the  strife, 
On  foot,  with  Scottish  axe  and  knife, 

At  the  fourth  hour  from  peep  of  dawn; 
When  Deloraine,  from  sickness  freed, 
Or  else  a  champion  in  his  stead, 
Should  for  himself  and  chieftain  stand. 
Against  stout  Musgrave,  hand  to  hand. 

I  know  right  well,  that,  in  their  lay. 
Full  many  minstrels  sing  and  say. 

Such  combat  should  be  made  on  horse, 
On  foaming  steed,  in  full  career. 
With  brand  to  aid,  when  as  the  spear 

Should  shiver  in  the  course: 
But  he,  the  jovial  Harper,  taught 
Me,  yet  a  youth,  how  it  was  fought, 

In  guise  which  now  I  say : 
He  knew  each  ordinance  and  clause 
Of  black 'Lord  Archibald's  battle  laws, 

In  the  old  Douglas'  day. 
He  brooked  not,  he,  that  scoffing  tongue 
Should  tax  his  minstrelsy  with  wrong. 

Or  call  his  song  untrue : 
For  this  when  they  the  goblet  plied. 
And  such  rude  taunt  had  chafed  his  pride, 

The  bard  of  Reull  he  slew. 
On  Teviot's  side,  in  fight  they  stood. 
And  tuneful  hands  were  stained  with  blood; 
Where  still  the  thorn's  white  branches  wave 
Memorial  o'er  his  rival's  grave. 

Why  should  I  tell  the  rigid  doom. 
That  dragged  my  master  to  his  tomb; 


70  ~  liAY    OF    THE 

How  Ousenam's  maidens  tore  their  hair, 
Wept  till  their  eyes  were  dead  and  dim, 
And  wrung  their  hands  for  love  of  him. 

Who  died  at  Jedwood  Air? 
He  died!  —  his  scholars,  one  by  one. 
To  the  cold  silent  grave  are  gone; 
And  I,  alas !  survive  alone. 
To  muse  o'er  rivalries  of  yore. 
And  grieve  that  I  shall  hear  no  more 
The  strains,  with  envy  heard  before; 
For,  with  my  minstrel  brethren  fled. 
My  jealousy  of  song  is  dead. 


He  paused:  —  the  listening  daraes  again 
Applaud  the  hoary  Minstrel's  strain; 
With  many  a  word  of  kindly  cheer, — 
In  pity  half,  and  half  sincere,  — 
Marvelled  the  Duchess  how  so  well 
His  legendary  song  could  tell  — 
Of  ancient  deeds,  so  long  forgot; 
Of  feuds,  whose  memory  was  not; 
Of  forests,  now  laid  waste  and  bare ; 
Of  towers,  which  harbor  now  the  hare; 
Of  manners,  long  since  changed  and  gone ; 
Of  chiefs,  who  under  their  gray  stone 
So  long  had  slept,  that  fickle  Fame 
Had  blotted  from  her  rolls  their  name. 
And  twined  round  some  new  minion's  head 
The  fading  wreath  for  which  they  bled ;  — 
In  sooth,  'twas  strange,  this  old  man's  verse 
Could  call  them  from  their  marble  hearse. 


I^ST   MINSTREL.  tI 

The  Harper  smiled,  well  pleased ;  for  ne'er  \ 
l^as  flattery  lost  on  poet's  ear:  ^ 

'a  simple  race !  they  waste  then*  toil 
JFor  the  vain  tribute  of  a  smile ; 
E'en  when  in  age  their  flame  expires, 
Her  dulcet  breath  can  fan  its  fires ; 
Their  drooping  fancy  wakes  at  praise, 
And  strives  to  trim  the  short-lived  blaze. 

Smiled  then,  well  pleased,  the  Aged  Man, 
And  thus  his  tale  continued  ran. 


CANTO  FIFTH. 

Call  it  not  vain:  —  they  do  not  err, 
Who  say,  that,  when  the  Poet  dies. 

Mute  Nature  mourns  her  worshipper,  ^ 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies; 

Who  say,  tall  cliff,  and  cavern  lone, 

For  the  departed  bard  make  moan ; 

That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill; 

That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil; 

Through  his  loved  grove  that  breezes  sigh, 

And  oaks,  in  deeper  groan,  reply; 

And  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 

To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 


72  LAY    OF    THE 

Not  that,  in  sooth,  o'er  mortal  urn 

Those  things  inanimate  can  mourn; 

But  that  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  gale, 

Is  vocal  with  the  plaintive  wail 

Of  those,  who,  else  forgotten  long. 

Lived  in  the  poet's  faithful  song. 

And,  with  the  poet's  parting  breath, 

Whose  memory  feels  a  second  death. 

The  maid's  pale  shade,  who  wails  her  lot, 

That  love,  true  love,  should  be  forgot, 

From  rose  and  hawthorn  shakes  the  tear 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel's  bier: 

The  phantom  knight,  his  glory  fled. 

Mourns  o'er  the  fields  he  heaped  with  dead; 

Mounts  the  Avild  blast  that  sweeps  amain, 

And  shrieks  along  the  battle-plain: 

The  chief,  whose  antique  crownlet  long 

Still  sparkled  in  the  feudal  song, 

Now,  from  the  mountain's  misty  throne, 

Sees,  in  the  thanedom  once  his  own, 

His  ashes  undistinguished  lie, 

His  place,  his  power,,  his  memory  die: 

His  groans  the  lonely  caverns  fill. 

His  tears  of  rage  impel  the  rill; 

All  mourn  the  minstrel's  harp  unstrung, 

Their  name  unknown,  their  praise  unsung. 


Scarcely  the  hot  assault  was  staid. 

The  terms  of  truce  were  scarcely  made. 

When  they  could  spy,  from  Branksome's  towers, 

The  advancing  march  of  martial  powers ; 

Thick  clouds  of  dust  afar  appeared, 

And  trampling  steeds  were  faintly  heard; 


LAST    MINSTREL.  | 

Bright  spears,  above  the  columns  dun, 

Glanced  momentary  to  the  sun; 

And  feudal  banners  fair  displayed 

The  bands  that  moved  to  Branksome's  aid. 

■*Vails  not  to  tell  each  hardy  clan. 

From  the  fair  Middle  Marches  came; 
The  Bloody  Heart  blazed  in  the  van, 

Announcing"  Douglas,  dreaded  name ! 
'Vails  not  to  tell  what  steeds  did  spurn, 
Where  the  Seven-Spears  of  Wedderbum 

Their  men  in  battle-order  set; 
And  Swinton  laid  the  lance  in  rest, 
That  tamed  of  yore  the  sparkling  crest 

Of  Clarence's  Plantagenet 
Nor  lists,  I  say,  what  hundreds  more. 
From  the  rich  Merse  and  Lammermore, 
And  Tweed's  fair  borders,  to  the  war, 
Beneath  the  crest  of  old  Dunbar, 

And  Hepburn's  mingled  banners  come, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  glittering  far. 

And  shouting  still,  "  a  Home  !  a  Home  !  '* 

Now  squire  and  knight,  from  Branksorae  sent. 
On  many  a  courteous  message  went; 
To  every  chief  and  lord  they  paid 
Meet  thanks  for  prompt  and  powerful  aid , 
And  told  them,  —  how  a  truce  was  made, 
And  how  a  day  of  fight  was  ta'en 
'Twixt  Musgrave  and  stout  Deloraine ; 

And  how  the  Ladye  prayed  them  dear. 
That  all  would  stay  the  fight  to  see. 
And  deign,  in  love  and  courtesy. 
To  taste  of  Branksome  cheer. 

7 


74  I-AY    OF    THE 

Nor,  while  they  bade  to  feast  each  Scot, 
Were  England's  noble  Lords  forgot ; 
Himself,  the  hoary  Seneschal, 
Rode  forth,  in  seemly  terms  to  call 
Those  gallant  foes  to  Branksome  Hall. 
Accepted  Howard,  than  whom  knight 
Was  never  dubbed,  more  bold  in  fight; 
Nor,  when  from  war  and  armor  free, 
More  famed  for  stately  courtesy : 
But  angry  Dacre  rather  chose 
In  his  pavilion  to  repose. 


Now,  noble  Dame,  perchance  you  ask. 

How  these  two  hostile  armies  met? 
Deeming  it  were  no  easy  task 

To  keep  the  truce  which  here  was  set ; 
Where  martial  spirits,  all  on  fire. 
Breathed  only  blood  and  mortal  ire.  — 
By  mutual  inroads,  mutual  blows. 
By  habit,  and  by  nation,  foes. 

They  met  on  Teviot's  strand : 
They  met,  and  sate  them  mingled  down, 
Without  a  threat,  without  a  frown. 

As  brothers  meet  in  foreign  land : 
The  hands,  the  spear  that  lately  grasped, 
Still  in  the  mailed  gauntlet  clasped. 

Were  interchanged  in  greeting  dear ; 
Visors  were  raised,  and  faces  shown. 
And  many  a  friend,  to  friend  made  known. 

Partook  of  social  cheer. 
Some  drove  the  jolly  bowl  about ; 

With  dice  and  draughts  some  chased  the  day ; 
And  some,  with  many  a  merry  shout. 


LAST    MINSTREL. 

In  riot,  revelry,  and  rout, 

Pursued  the  foot-ball  play. 
Yet  be  it  known,  had  bugles  blown, 
t     Or  sign  of  war  been  seen; 
Those  bands,  so  fair  together  ranged, 
Those  hands,  so  frankly  interchanged, 

Had  dyed  with  gore  the  green: 
The  merry  shout  by  Teviot-side 
Had  sunk  in  war-cries  wild  and  wide. 

And  in  the  groan  of  death ; 
And  whingers,  now  in  friendship  bare, 
The  social  meal  to  part  and  share. 

Had  found  a  bloody  sheath. 
'Twixt  truce  and  war,  such  sudden  change 
Was  not  unfrequent,  nor  held  strange, 

In  the  old  Border-day; 
But  yet  on  Branksome's  towers  and  town, 
In  peaceful  merriment,  sunk  down 

The  sun's  declining  ray. 

The  blithesome  signs  of  wassail  gay 
Decayed  not  with  the  dying  day; 
Soon  through  the  latticed  windows  tall, 
Of  lofty  Branksome's  lordly  hall. 
Divided  square  by  shafts  of  stone. 
Huge  flakes  of  ruddy  lustre  shone. 
Nor  less  the  gilded  rafters  rang 
With  merry  harp  and  beakers'  clang; 

And  frequent,  on  the  darkening  plain, 
Loud  hallo,  whoop,  or  whistle  ran. 

As  bands,  their  stragglers  to  regain. 

Give  the  shrill  watchword  of  their  clan; 

And  revellers,  o'er  their  bowls,  proclaim 

Douglas  or  Dacre's  conquering  name. 


75 


76  LAY    OF    THE 


frequent  heard,  and  fainter  still, 

At  length  the  various  clamors  died ; 
And  you  might  hear,  from  Branksome  hill, 

No  sound  but  Teviot's  rushing  tide; 
Save,  when  the  changing  sentinel 
The  challenge  of  his  watch  could  tell :  ' 
And  save,  where,  through  the  dark  profound, 
The  clanging  axe  and  hammer's  sound 

Rung  from  the  nether  lawn ; 
For  many  a  busy  hand  toiled  there. 
Strong  pales  to  shape,  and  beams  to  square, 
The  lists'  dread  barriers  to  prepare. 

Against  the  morrow's  dawn. 

Margaret  from  hall  did  soon  retreat. 

Despite  the  Dame's  reproving  eye, 
Nor  marked  she,  as  she  left  her  seat, 

Full  many  a  stifled  sigh: 
For  many  a  noble  warrior  strove 
To  win  the  flower  of  Teviot's  love, 

And  many  a  bold  ally. — 
With  throbbing  head  and  anxious  heart, 
All  in  her  lonely  bower  apart. 

In  broken  sleep  she  lay : 
By  times,  from  silken  couch  she  rose ; 
While  yet  the  bannered  hosts  repose, 

She  viewed  the  dawning  day ; 
Of  all  the  hundreds  sunk  to  rest, 
First  woke  the  loveliest  and  the  best. 

She  gazed  upon  the  inner  court, 

Which  in  the  tower's  tall  shadow  lay ; 

Where  coursers'  clang,  and  stamp,  and  snort, 
Had  rung  the  livelong  yesterday; 


LAST    MINSTREL.  # 

Now  still  as  death  ;  —  till,  stalking  slow,  — 
The  jingling  spurs  announced  his  tread, — 

A  stately"  warrior  passed  below ; 

But  when  he  raised  his  plumed  head  — 

Blessed  Mary!  can  it  be?  — 
Secure,  as  if  in  Ousenam  bowers. 
He  walks  through  Branksome's  hostile  towera 
With  fearless  step  and  free. 

She  dare  not  sign,  she  dare  not  speak  — 

Oh !  if  one  page's  slumbers  break. 
His  blood  the  price  must  pay ! 

Not  all  the  pearls  Queen  Mary  wears. 

Not  Margaret's  yet  more  precious  tears. 
Shall  buy  his  life  a  day. 

Yet  was  his  hazard  small  —  for  well 
You  may  bethink  you  of  the  spell 

Of  that  sly  urchin  Page ; 
This  to  his  lord  he  did  impart, 
And  made  him  seem,  by  glamour  art, 

A  knight  from  Hermitage. 
Unchallenged,  thus,  the  warder's  post, 
The  court,  unchallenged,  thus  he  crossed. 

For  all  the  vassalage: 
But,  O !  what  magic's  quaint  disguise 
Could  blind  fair  Margaret's  azure  eyes ! 

She  started  from  her  seat; 
While  with  surprise  and  fear  she  strove. 
And  both  could  scarcely  master  love  — 

Lord  Henry's  at  her  feet. 

Oft  have  I  mused,  what  purpose  bad  . 
That  foul  malicious  urchin  had 


78  LAY    OF    THE 

To  bring  this  meeting  round ; 
For  happy  love's  a  heavenly  sight, 
And  by  a  vile  malignant  sprite 

In  such  no  joy  is  found: 
And  ofl  I've  deemed,  perchance  he  thought 
Their  erring  passion  might  have  wrought 

Sorrow,  and  sin,  and  shame ; 
And  death  to  Cranstoun's  gallant  Knight, 
And  to  the  gentle  Ladye  bright. 

Disgrace,  and  loss  of  fame. 

But  earthly  spirit  could  not  tell 

j   The  heart  of  them  that- loved  so  well; 

I  j  True  love's  the  gift  which  God  has  given 

vJTo  man  alone  beneath  the  heaven. 

It  is  not  Fantasy's  hot  fire, 

Whose  wishes,  soon  as  granted,  fly; 
It  liveth  not  in  fierce  desire, 

With  dead  desire  it  doth  not  die : 
It  is  the  secret  sympathy. 
The  silver  link,  the  silken  tie. 
Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind, 
In  body  and  in  soul  can  bind.  — 
Now  leave  we  Margaret  and  her  Knight, 
To  tell  you  of  the  approaching  fight 


Their  warning  blast  the  bugles  blew. 

The  pipe's  shrill  port  aroused  each  clan; 
In  haste,  the  deadly  strife  to  view. 
The  trooping  warriors  eager  ran: 
Thick  round  the  lists  their  lances  stood. 
Like  blasted  pines  in  Ettricke  wood; 
To  Branksome  many  a  look  th^y  threw,    , 
The  combatants'  approach  to  view, 


LAST    MINSTREL.  79 


And  bandied  many  a  word  of  boast, 
About  the  knig^ht  each  favored  most 


Meantime  full  anxious  was  the  Dame ; 
For  now  arose  disputed  claim, 
Of  who  should  fight  for  Deloraine, 
'Twixt  Harden  and  'twixt  Thirlestane : 
They  'gan  to  reckon  kin  and  rent, 
And  frowning  brow  on  brow  was  bent; 
But  yet  not  long  the  strife  —  for,  lo ! 
Himself,  the  Knight  of  Deloraine, 
Strong,  as  it  seemed,  and  free  from  pain, 
In  armor  sheathed  from  top  to  toe. 
Appeared,  and  craved  the  combat  due. 
The  Dame  her  charm  successful  knew, 
And  the  fierce  chiefs  their  claims  withdrew. 

When  for  the  lists  they  sought  the  plain. 
The  stately  Ladye's  silken  rein 

Did  noble  Howard  hold ; 
Unarmed  by  her  side  he  walked, 
And  much,  in  courteous  phrase,  they  talked 

Of  feats  of  arms  of  old. 
Costly  his  garb,  his  Flemish  ruff 
Fell  o'er  his  doublet,  shaped  of  buff, 

With  satin  slashed,  and  lined; 
Tawny  his  boot,  and  gold  his  spur, 
His  cloak  was  all  of  Poland  fur, 

His  hose  with  silver  twined; 
His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt, 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt; 
Hence,  in  rude  phrase,  the  Borderers  still 
Called  noble  Howard,  Belted  Will. 


fl$  .  LAY    OF    THE 

Behind  Lord  Howard  and  the  Dame, 
Fair  Margaret  on  her  palfrey  came, 

Whose  foot-cloth  swept  the  ground ; 
White  was  her  wimple,  and  her  veil, 
And  her  loose  locks  a  chaplet  pale 

Of  whitest  roses  bound ; 
The  lordly  Angus,  by  her  side, 
In  courtesy  to  cheer  her  tried; 
Without  his  aid,  her  hand  in  vain 
Had  strove  to  guide  her  broidered  rein. 
He  deemed,  she  shuddered  at  the  sight 
Of  warriors  met  for  mortal  fight; 
But  cause  of  terror,  all  unguessed. 
Was  fluttering  in  her  gentle  breast. 
When,  in  their  chairs  of  crimson  placed, 
The  Dame  and  she  the  barriers  graced. 


Prize  of  the  field,  the  young  Buccleuch 
An  English  knight  led  forth  to  view; 
Scarce  rued  the  boy  his  present  plight, 
So  much  he  longed  to  see  the  fight. 
Within  the  lists,  in  knightly  pride, 
High  Home  and  haughty  Dacre  ride; 
Their  leading  staflTs  of  steel  they  wield, 
As  marshals  of  the  mortal  field : 
While  to  each  knight  their  care  assigned 
Like  vantage  of  the  sun  and  wind. 
Then  heralds  hoarse  witli  loud  proclaim. 
In  king  and  queen,  and  wardens'  name, 

That  none,  while  lasts  the  strife. 
Should  dare,  by  look,  or  sign,  or  word. 
Aid  to  a  champion  to  afford. 

On  peril  of  his  life ; 


liAST   MINSTREL. 

And  not  a  breath  the  silence  broke, 
Till  thus  the  alternate  heralds  spoke: 

ENGLISH   HERALD. 

Here  standeth  Richard  of  Musgrave, 

Good  knight  and  true,  and  freely  born, 
Amends  from  Deloraine  to  crave, 

For  foul  despiteous  scathe  and  scorn. 
He  sayeth,  that  William  of  Deloraine 

Is  traitor  false  by  Border  laws; 
This  with  his  sword  he  will  maintain, 

So  help  him  God,  and  his  good  cause! 

SCOTTISH    HERALD. 

Here  standeth  William  of  Deloraine, 
Good  knight  and  true,  of  noble  strain, 
Who  sayeth,  that  foul  treason's  stain, 

Since  he  bore  arms,  ne'er  soiled  his  coat; 
And  that,  so  help  him  God  above, 
He  will  on  Musgrave's  body  prove 
He  lies  most  foully  in  his  throat 

LORD    DACRE. 

Forward,  brave  champions,  to  the  fight! 
Sound  trumpets  I 

LORD  HoivrE. 

"  God  defend  the  right !  "  — 

Then,  Teviot!  how  thine  echoes  rang. 
When  bugle-sound  and  trumpet-clang 


62  LAY    OF    THE 

Let  loose  the  martial  foes, 
And  in  mid  list,  with  shield  poised  high, 
And  measured  step  and  wary  eye. 

The  combatants  did  close. 

111  would  it  suit  your  gentle  ear. 

Ye  lovely  listeners,  to  hear 

How  to  the  axe  the  helms  did  sound. 

And  blood  poured  down  from  many  a  wound; 

For  desparate  was  the  strife,  and  long. 

And  either  warrior  fierce  and  strong; 

But,  were  each  dame  a  listening  knight, 

I  well  could  tell  how  warriors  fight; 

For  I  have  seen  war's  lightning  flashing, 

I  Seen  the  claymore  with  bayonet  clashing. 
Seen  through  red  blood  the  war-horse  dashing, 
And  scorned,  amid  the  reeling  strife. 
To  yield  a  step  for  death  or  life. 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done !  that  fatal  blow 
Has  stretched  him  on  the  bloody  plain ; 

He  strives  to  rise  —  Brave  Musgrave,  no ! 
Thence  never  shalt  thou  rise  again ! 

He  chokes  in  blood  —  some  friendly  hand 

Undo  the  visor's  barred  band. 

Unfix  the  gorget's  iron  clasp, 

And  give  him  room  for  life  to  gasp !  — 

■O,  bootless  aid !  —  haste  holy  Friar, 

Haite  ere  the  sinner  shall  expire! 

Of  all  his  guilt  let  him  be  shriven. 

And  smooth  his  path  from  earth  to  heaven. 

In  haste  the  holy  Friar  sped:  — 
His  naked  foot  was  dyed  with  red. 


LAST    MINSTREL. 

As  through  the  lists  he  ran; 
Unmindful  of  the  shouts  on  high, 
That  hailed  the  conqueror's  victory, 

He  raised  the  dying  man ; 
Loose  waved  his  silver  beard  and  hair, 
As  o'er  him  he  kneeled  down  in  prayer; 
And  still  the  crucifix  on  high 
He  holds  before  his  darkening  eye ; 
And  still  he  bends  an  anxious  ear. 
His  faltering  penitence  to  hear; 

Still  props  him  from  the  bloody  sod, 
Still,  even  when  soul  and  body  part, 
Pours  ghostly  comfort  on  his  heart, 

And  bids  him  trust  in  God  ! 
Unheard  he  prays;  — the  death  pang's  o'er! 
Richard  of  Musgrave  breathes  no  more. 


As  if  exhausted  in  the  fight, 
Or  musing  o'er  the  piteous  sight, 

The  silent  victor  stands  ; 
His  beaver  did  he  not  unclasp. 
Marked  not  the  shouts,  felt  not  the  grasp 

Of  gratulating  hands. 
When  lo!  strange  cries  of  wild  surprise, 
Mingled  with  seeming  terror,  rise 

Among  the  Scottish  bands ; 
And  all,  amid  the  thronged  array. 
In  panic  haste  gave  open  way 
To  a  half-naked  ghastly  man. 
Who  downward  from  the  castle  ran : 
He  crossed  the  barriers  at  a  bound. 

And  wild  and  haggard  looked  around, 
As  dizzy,  and  in  pain; 


84 


LAY    OF    THE 


And  all,  upon  the  armed  ground, 
Knew  William  of  Deloraine! 
Each  ladye  sprung  from  seat  with  speed; 
Vaulted  each  marshal  from  his  steed; 

"And  who  art  thou,"  they  cried, 
"  Who  hast  this  battle  fought  and  won  ?  " 
His  plumed  helm  was  soon  undone  — 

"Cranstoun  of  Teviotside ! 
For  this  fair  prize  I've  fought  and  won,"  — 
And  to  the  Ladye  led  her  son. 


Full  oft  the  rescued  boy  she  kissed, 
And  often  pressed  him  to  her  breast; 
For,  under  all  her  dauntless  show, 
Her  heart  had  throbbed  at  every  blow; 
Yet  not  Lord  Cranstoun  deigned  she  greet, 
Though  low  he  kneeled  at  her  feet. — 
Me  lists  not  tell  what  words  were  made. 
What  Douglas,  Home,  and  Howard  said  — 

—  For  Howard  was  a  generous  foe  — 
And  how  the  clan  united  prayed, 

The  Ladye  would  the  feud  forego. 
And  deign  to  bless  the  nuptial  hour 
Of  Cranstoun's  Lord  and  Teviot's  Flower. 


She  looked  to  river,  looked  to  hill. 
Thought  on  the  Spirit's  prophecy. 

Then  broke  her  silence  stern  and  still, — 
"Not  you,  but  Fate,  has  vanquished  me; 

Their  influence  kindly  stars  may  shower 

On  Teviot's  tide  and  Branksome's  tower, 


/ 


i 

LAST   MINSTREL.  9& 


For  pride  is  quelled,  and  love  is  free." 
She  took  fair  Margaret  by  the  hand, 
Who,  breathless,  trembling,  scarce  might  stand; 

That  hand  to  Cranstoun's  lord  gave  she 
"As  I  am  true  to  thee  and  thine, 
Do  thou  be  true  to  me  and  mine! 

This  clasp  of  love  our  bond  shall  be; 
For  this  is  your  betrothing  day. 
And  all  these  noble  lords  shall  stay. 

To  grace  it  with  their  company." 

All  as  they  left  the  listed  plain. 

Much  of  the  story  she  did  gain: 

How  Cranstoun  fought  with  Deloraine, 

And  of  his  Page,  and  of  the  Book, 

Which  from  the  wounded  knight  he  took; 

And  how  he  sought  her  castle  high. 

That  mom,  by  help  of  gramarye ; 

How,  in  Sir  William's  armor  dight, 

Stolen  by  his  Page,  while  slept  the  knight, 

He  took  on  him  the  single  fight 

But  half  his  tale  he  left  unsaid, 

And  lingered  till  he  joined  the  maid.— 

Cared  not  the  Ladye  to  betray 

Her  mystic  arts  in  view  of  day. 

But  well  she  thought;  ere  midnight  came, 

Of  that  strange  Page  the  pride  to  tame, 

From  his  foul  hands  the  Book  to  save, 

And  send  it  back  to  Michael's  grave. — 

Needs  not  to  tell  each  tender  word 

'Twixt  Margaret  and  'twixt  Cranstoun's  lord; 

Nor  how  she  told  of  former  woes, 

And  how  her  bosom  fell  and  rose, 

While  he  and  Musgrave  bandied  blows  — 


96  LAY    OF    THE 

Needs  not  these  lovers'  joys  to  tell ; 

One  day,  fair  maids,  you'll  know  them  welL 


William  of  Deloraine,  some  chance 
Had  wakened  from  his  deathlike  trance; 

And  taught  that,  in  the  listed  plain, 
Another,  in  his  arms  and  shield, 
Against  fierce  Musgrave  axe  did  wield, 

Under  the  name  of  Deloraine. 
Hence,  to  the  field,  unarmed,  he  ran, 
And  hence  his  presence  scared  the  clan. 
Who  held  him  for  some  fleeting  wraith, 
And  not  a  man  of  blood  and  breath. 

Not  much  this  new  ally  he  loved. 

Yet,  when  he  saw  what  hap  had  proved. 
He  greeted  him  right  heartilie : 

He  would  not  waken  old  debate. 

For  he  was  void  of  rancorous  hate. 
Though  rude,  and  scant  of  courtesy; 
In  raids  he  spilt  but  seldom  blood. 
Unless  when  men  at  arms  withstood. 
Or,  as  was  meet,  for  deadly  feud. 
He  ne'er  bore  grudge  for  stalwart  blow, 
Ta'en  in  fair  fight  from  gallant  foe: 

And  so  'twas  seen  of  him,  e'en  now, 
When  on  dead  Musgrave  he  looked  down 

Grief  darkened  on  his  rugged  brow. 
Though  half  disguised  with  a  frown; 
And  thus,  while  sorrow  bent  his  head. 
His  foeman's  epitaph  he  made. 

"Now,  Richard  Musgrave,  liest  thou  here! 
I  ween,  my  deadly  enemy ; 


LAST    MINSTREL. 

For  if  I  slew  thy  brother  dear, 

Thou  slewest  a  sister's  son  to  me ; 
And  when  I  lay  in  dungeon  dark, 

Of  Naworth  Castle,  long  months  three, 
Till  ransomed  for  a  thousand  mark, 

Dark  Musgrave,  it  was  long  of  thee. 
And,  Musgrave,  could  our  fight  be  tried, 

And  thou  wert  now  alive,  as  I, 
No  mortal  man  should  us  divide, 

Till  one,  or  both  of  us,  did  die: 
Yet,  rest  thee  God!  for  well  I  know, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  nobler  foe. 
In  all  the  northern  counties  here. 
Whose  word,  is  Snafle,  spur,  and  spear, 
Thou  wert  the  best  to  follow  gear. 
'Twas  pleasure,  as  we  looked  behind. 
To  see  how  thou  the  chase  couldst  wind, 
Cheer  the  dark  blood-hound  on  his  way. 
And  with  the  bugle  rouse  the  fray! 
I'd  give  the  lands  of  Deloraine,  '' 

Dark  Musgrave  were  alive  again." 

So  mourned  he,  till  Lord  Dacre's  band 
Were  bowning  back  to  Cumberland. 
They  raised  brave  Musgrave  from  the  field, 
And  laid  him  on  his  bloody  shield; 
On  levelled  lances,  four  and  four. 
By  turns,  the  noble  burden  bore: 
Before,  at  times,  upon  the  gale, 
Was  heard  the  Minstrel's  plaintive  wail; 
Behind,  four  priests,  in  sable  stole. 
Sung  requiem  for  the  warrior's  soul : 
Around,  the  horsemen  slowly  rode; 
With  trailing  pikes  the  spearmen  trod; 


87 


88  LAY    OF    THE 

And  thus  the  gallant  knight  they  bore, 
Through  Liddesdale  to  Leven's  shore ; 
Thence  to  Holme  Coltrane's  lofty  nave, 
And  laid  him  in  his  father's  grave. 


The  harp's  wild  notes,  though  hushed  the  song, 
The  mimic  march  of  death  prolong; 
Now  seems  it  far,  and  now  anear. 
Now  meets,  and  now  eludes  the  ear ; 
Now  seems  some  mountain  side  to  sweep. 
Now  faintly  dies  in  valley  deep ; 
Seems  now  as  if  the  Minstrel's  wail. 
Now  the  sad  requiem  loads  the  gale ; 
Last,  o'er  the  warrior's  closing  grave. 
Rung  the  full  choir  in  choral  stave. 

After  due  pause,  they  bade  him  tell. 
Why  he  who  touched  the  harp  so  well, 
Should  thus,  with  ill-rewarded  toil, 
Wander  a  poor  and  thankless  soil. 
When  the  more  generous  southern  land 
Would  well  requite  his  skillful  hand. 

The  Aged  Harper,  howsoe'er 

His  only  friend,  his  harp,  was  dear, 

Liked  not  to  hear  it  ranked  so  high 

Above  his  flowing*  poesy ; 

Less  liked  he  still  that  scornful  jeer 

Misprized  the  land,  he  loved  so  dear; 

High  Avas  the  sound,  as  thus  again 

The  Bard  resumed  his  minstrel  strain. 


LAST   MINSTREL. 


CANTO  SIXTH. 


//Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
/  Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 


This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  !  | 

bi 


I    Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
f  V  As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned. 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ;  ^ 
For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swellj 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self. 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown,- 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

O  Caledonia !  stera  and  wild. 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood. 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood. 

Land  of  my  sires!  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band, 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand! 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene. 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been. 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left, 

And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 
8* 


90  LAY    OF    THE 

By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray, 
Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way ; 
Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettricke  break, 
Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek; 
Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  stone. 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 
The  Bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

Not  scorned  like  me !  to  Branksome  Hall 
The  Minstrels  came,  at  festive  call: 
Trooping  they  came,  from  near  and  far, 
The  jovial  priests  of  mirth  and  war ; 
Alike  for  feast  and  fight  prepared. 
Battle  and  banquet  both  they  shared. 
Of  late,  before  each  martial  clan. 
They  blew  their  death-note  in  the  van, 
But  now,  for  every  merry  mate. 
Rose  the  portcullis'  iron  grate ; 
They  sound  the  pipe,  they  strike  the  string, 
They  dance,  they  revel,  and  they  sing. 
Till  the  rude  turrets  shake  and  ring. 

Me  lists  not  at  this  tide  declare 

The  splendor  of  a  spousal  rite, 
How  mustered  in  the  chapel  fair 

Both  maid  and  matron,  squire  and  knight; 
Me  lists  not  tell  of  owches  rare, 
Of  mantles  green,  and  braided  hair, 
And  kirtles  furred  with  miniver; 
What  plumage  waved  th%  altar  round. 
How  spurs,  and  ringing  chainlets,  sound: 
And  hard  it  were  for  bard  to  speak 
The  changeful  hue  of  Margaret's  cheek; 


LAST   MINSTREL.  ^ 

That  lovely  hue,  which  comes  and  flies, 
As  awe  and  shame  alternate  rise ! 

Some  bards  have  sung,  the  Ladye  high 

Chapel  or  altar  came  not  nigh; 

Nor  durst  the  rites  of  spousal  grace, 

So  much  she  feared  each  holy  place. 

False  slanders  these:  —  I  trust  right  well, 

She  wrought  not  by  forbidden  spell ; 

For  mighty  words  and  signs  have  power 

O'er  sprites  m  planetary  hour ; 

Yet  scarce  I  praise  their  venturous  part, 

Who  tamper  with  such  dangerous  art 

But  this  for  faithful  truth  1  say: 
The  Ladye  by  the  altar  stood, 

Of  sable  velvet  her  array. 

And  on  her  head  a  crimson  hood. 
With  pearls  embroidered  and  entwined, 
'  Guarded  with  gold,  with  ermme  lined ; 
A  merlin  sat  upon  her  wrist, 
Held  by  a  leash  of  silken  twist. 

The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon : 
'Twas  now  the  merry  hour  of  noon. 
And  in  the  lofty  arched  hall 
Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival. 
Steward  and  squire,  with  heedful  haste. 
Marshalled  the  rank  of  every  guest; 
Pages,  with  ready  blade,  were  there. 
The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share: 
O'er  capon,  heron-sjiew,  -and  crane, 
And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train. 
And  o'er  the  boar-head,  garnished  brave. 
And  cygnet  from  St.  Mary's  wave; 


92  LAY   OF    THE 

O'er  ptarmigan  and  venison, 

The  priest  had  spoke  his  benison. 

Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din, 

Above,  beneath,  without,  within! 

For  from  the  lofty  balcony, 

Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery; 

Their  clanging  bowls  old  warriors  quaffed, 

Loudly  they  spoke,  and  loudly  laughed ; 

Whispered  young  knights,  in  tone  more  mild. 

To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smiled. 

The  hooded  hawks,  high  perched  on  beam, 

Their  clamor  joined  with  whistling  scream. 

And  flapped  their  wings,  and  shook  their  bells. 

In  concert  with  the  stag-hounds'  yells. 

Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine. 

From  Bordeaux,  Orleans,  or  the  Rhine ; 

Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply, 

And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry. 


The  Goblin  Page,  omitting  still 

No  opportunity  of  ill. 

Strove  now,  while  blood  ran  hot  and  high, 

To  rouse  debate  and  jealousy ; 

Till  Conrad,  lord  of  Wolfenstein, 

By  nature  fierce,  and  warm  with  wine, 

And  now  in  hum»r  highly  crossed. 

About  some  steeds  his  band  had  lost. 

High  words  to  words  succeeding  still. 

Smote,  with  his  gauntlet,  stout  Hunthill; 

A  hot  and  hardy  Rutherford, 

Whom  men  call  Dickon  Draw-the-Sword. 

He  took  it  on  the  Page's  saye, 

Hunthill  had  driven  these  steeds  away. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  98 

Then  Howard,  Home,  and  Douglas  rose, 

The  kindling  discord  to  compose : 

Stern  Rutherford  right  little  said. 

But  bit  his  glove,  and  shook  his  head. — 

A  fortnight  thence,  in  Inglewood, 

Stout  Conrad,  cold  and  drenched  in  blood, 

His  bosom  gored  with  many  a  wound, 

Was  by  a  woodman's  lyme-dog  found ; 

Unknown  the  manner  of  his  death. 

Gone  was  his  brand,  both  sword  and  sheath: 

But  ever  from  that  time,  'twas  said. 

That  Dickon  wore  a  Cologne  blade. 


The  Dwarf,  who  feared  his  master's  eye 

Might  his  foul  treachery  espy. 

Now  sought  the  castle  buttery, 

Where  many  a  yeoman,  bold  and  free, 

Revelled  as  merrily  and  well 

As  those  that  sat  in  lordly  selle. 

Watt  Tinlinn,  there,  did  frankly  raise 

The  pledge  to  Arthur  Fire-the-Braes ; 

And  he,  as  by  his  breeding  bound. 

To  Howard's  merry-men  sent  it  round. 

To  quit  them,  on  the  English  side, 

Red  Roland  Forster  loudly  cried, 

"  A  deep  carouse  to  yon  fair  bride ! " 

At  every  pledge,  from  vat  and  pail. 

Foamed  forth,  in  floods,  the  nut-brown  ale; 

While  shout  the  riders  every  one. 

Such  day  of  mirth  ne'er  cheered  their  clan, 

Since  old  Buccleuch  the  name  did  gain, 

When  in  the  cleuch  the  buck  was  ta'en. 


94  LAY    OF    THE 

The  wily  Page  with  vengeful  thought, 

Remembered  him  of  Tinlinn's  yew, 

And  swore  it  should  be  dearly  bought. 

That  ever  he  the  arrow  drew. 

First,  he  the  yeoman  did  molest, 

With  bitter  gibe  and  taunting  jest; 

Told  how  he  fled  at  Solway  strife, 

And  how  Hob  Armstrong  cheered  his  wife; 

Then,  shunning  still  his  powerful  arm, 

At  unawares  he  wrought  him  harm ; 

From  trencher  stole  his  choicest  cheer. 

Dashed  from  his  lips  his  can  of  beer, 

Then,  to  his  knee  sly  creeping  on. 

With  bodkin  pierced  him  to  the  bone: 

The  venomed  wound,  and  festering  joint, 

Long  after  rued  that  bodkin's  point 

The  startled  yeoman  swore  and  spumed, 

And  board  and  flagons  overturned; 

Riot  and  clamor  wild  began ; 

Back  to  the  hall  the  urchin  ran; 

Took  in  a  darkling  nook  his  post, 

And  grinned  aiid  muttered,  "Lost!  lost!  lost!" 

By  this,  the  Dame,  lest  further  fray 
Should  mar  the  concord  of  the  day, 
Had  bid  the  Minstrels  tune  their  lay. 
And  first  stept  forth  old  Albert  GrsBme, 
The  Minstrel  of  that  ancient  name: 
Was  none  who  struck  the  harp  so  well. 
Within  the  land  Debateable ; 
Well  friended  too,  his  hardy  kin. 
Whoever  lost,  -vfere  sure  to  win; 
They  sought  the  beeves,  that  made  their  broth, 
In  Scotland  and  in  England  both. 


LAST   MINSTREL.  95 


In  homely  guise,  as  nature  bade, 
His  simple  song  the  Borderer  said. 


ALBERT   GRJEME. 

It  was  an  English  ladye  bright, 

The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

And  she  would  marry  a  Scottish  knight. 
For  Love  will  still  be  lord  of  all. 

Blithely  they  saw  the  rising  sun. 

When  he  shone  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

But  they  were  sad  ere  day  was  done. 
Though  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Her  sire  gave  brooch  and  jewel  fine, 

Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall ; 

Her  brother  gave  but  a  flask  of  wine, 
For  ire  that  Love  was  lord  of  all. 

For  she  had  lands,  both  meadow  and  lea. 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

And  he  swore  her  death,  ere  he  would  see 
A  Scottish  knight  the  lord  of  all ! 

That  wine  she  had  not  tasted  well, 
The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  Avail ; 

When  dead,  in  her  true  love's  arms  she  fell. 
For  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

He  pierced  her  brother  to  the  heart, 

Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall ; 

So  perish  all,  would  true  love  part. 
That  Love  may  still  be  lord  of  all! 


96  LAY    OF    THE 

And  then  he  took  the  cross  divine, 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

And  died  for  her  sake  in  Palestine, 
So  Love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 


Now  all  ye  lovers,  that  faithful  prove, 
The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

Pray  for  their  souls,  who  died  for  love. 
For  Love  shall  still  be  lord  of  all ! 


As  ended  Albert's  simple  lay, 

Arose  a  bard  of  loftier  port; 
For  sonnet,  rhyme,  and  roundelay. 

Renowned  in  haughty  Henry's  court: 
There  rung  thy  harp,  unrivalled  long, 
Fitztraver  of  the  silver  song. 

The  gentle  Surrey  loved  his  lyre  — 
Who  has  not  heard  of  Surrey's  fame  ? 

His  was  the  hero's  soul  of  fire. 
And  his  the  bard's  immortal  name, 
And  his  was  love,  exalted  high 
By  all  the  glow  of  chivalry. 


They  sought,  together,  climes  afar. 
And  oft,  within  some  olive  grove. 

When  evening  came,  with  twinkling  star, 
I  They  sung  of  Surrey's  absent  love. 

His  step,  the  Italian  peasant  staid. 

And  deemed,  that  spirits  from  on  high, 

Round  where  some  hermit  saint  was  laid. 
Were  breathing  heavenly  melody ; 


LAST    MINSTREL.  97 

So  sweet  did  harp  and  voice  combine, 
To  praise  the  name  of  Geraldine. 

Fitztraver!  O  what  tongue  may  say 
The  pangs  thy  faithful  bosom  knew, 

When  Surrey,  of  the  deathless  lay. 
Ungrateful  Tudor's  sentence  slew? 

Regardless  of  the  tyrant's  frown, 

His  harp  called  wrath  and  vengeance  down. 

He  left,  for  Naworth's  iron  towers, 

Windsor's  green  glades,  and  courtly  bowers, 

And,  faithful  to  his  patron's  name, 

With  Howard  still  Fitztraver  came; 

Lord  William's  foremost  favorite  he. 

And  chief  of  all  his  minstrelsy. 


FITZTRAVER. 

'Twas  All-soul's  eve,  and  Surrey's  heart  beat  high; 

He  heard  the  midnight  bell  with  anxious  start, 
Which  told  the  mystic  hour,  approaching  nigh. 

When  wise  Cornelius  promised,  by  his  art, 
To  show  him  the  ladye  of  his  heart, 

Albeit  betwixt  them  roared  the  ocean  grim; 
Yet  so  the  sage  had  high  to  play  his  part, 
.  That  he  should  see  her  form  in  life  and  limb, 
And  mark,  if  still  she  loved,  and   still   she   thought 
of  him. 

Dark  was  the  vaulted  room  of  gramarye. 
To  which  the  wizard  led  the  gallant  knight, 

Save  that  before  a  mirror,  huge  and  high, 
A  hallowed  taper  shed  a  glimering  light 

On  mystic  implements  of  magic  might. 


98  LAY    OF    THE 

On  cross,  and  character,  and  talisman, 
And  almagest,  and  altar,  nothing  bright; 
For  fitful  was  the  lustre,  pale  and  wan. 
As  watch-light,  by  the  bed  of  some  departing  man. 


But  soon,  within  that  mirror,  huge  and  high, 

Was  seen  a  self-emitted  light  to  gleam; 
And  forms  upon  its  breast  the  earl  'gan  spy, 

Cloudy  and  indistinct,  as  feverish  dream; 
Till,  slow  arranging,  and  defined,  they  seem 

To  form  a  lordly  and  a  lofty  room. 
Part  lighted  by  a  lamp  with  silver  beam. 

Placed  by  a  couch  of  Agra's  silken  loom, 
And  part  by  moonshine  pale,  and   part   was    hid   in 
gloom. 


Fair  all  the  pageant  —  but  how  passing  fair 

The  slender  form,  which  lay  on  couch  of  Ind! 
O'er  her  white  bosom  strayed  her  hazel  hair, 

Pale  her  dark  cheek,  as  if  for  love  she  pined ; 
All  i»-*(6r^ night-robe  loose,  she  lay  reclined. 

And,  pensive,  read  from  tablet  eburnine 
Some  strain,  that  seemed  her  inmost  soul  to  find: 

That  favoured  strain  was  Surrey's  raptured  line, 
That  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Ladye  Geraldine. 


Slow  rolled  the  clouds  upon  the  lovely  form, 
And  swept  the  goodly  vision  all  away — 

So  royal  envy  rolled  the  murky  storm 
O'er  my  beloved  Master's  glorious  day. 

Thou  jealous,  ruthless  tyrant !  Heaven  repay 


LAST    MINSTREL. 


» 


On  thee,  and  on  thy  children's  latest  line, 
The  wild  caprice  of  thy  despotic  sway, 
The  gory  bridal  bed,  the  plundered  shrine. 
The  murdered  Surrey's  blood,  the  tears  of  Geraldine. 

Both  Scots,  and  Southern  chiefs,  prolong 
Applauses  of  Fitztraver's  song: 
These  hated  Henry's  name  as  death, 
And  those  still  held  the  ancient  faith. — 
Then,  from  his  seat,  witli  lofty  air, 
Rose  Harold,  bard  of  brave  St  Clair; 
St.  Clair,  who,  feasting  high  at  Home, 
Had  with  that  Lord  to  battle  come. 
Harold  was  born  where  restless  seas 
Howl  round  the  storm-swept  Orcades ; 
Where  erst  St  Clairs  held  princely  sway. 
O'er  isle  and  islet,  strait  and  bay;  — 
Still  nods  their  palace  to  its  fall. 
Thy  pride  and  sorrow,  fair  Kirkwall !  — 
Thence  oft  he  marked  fierce  Pentland  rave, 
As  if  grim  Odinn  rode  her  wave; 
And  watched,  the  whilst,  with  visage  pale 
And  throbbing  heart,  the  struggling  sail; 
For  all  of  wonderful  and  wild 
Had  rapture  for  the  lonely  child, 

And  much  of  wild  and  wonderful, 

In  Uiese  rude  isles,  might  Fancy  cull; 

For  thither  came,  in  times  afar. 

Stern  Lochlin's  sons  of  roving  war. 

The  Norsemen,  trained  to  spoil  and  blood, 

Skilled  to  prepare  the  raven's  food; 

Kings  of  the  main  their  leaders  brave, 

Their  barks  the  dragons  of  the  wave. 


100  LAY    OF    THE 

And  there,  in  many  a  stormy  vale, 
The  Scald  had  told  his  wondrous  tale; 
And  many  a  Runic  column  high 
Had  witnessed  grim  idolatry. 
And  thus  had  Harold,  in  his  youth. 
Learned  many  a  Saga's  rhyme  uncouth. 
Of  that  Sea-Snake,  tremendous  curled, 
Whose  monstrous  circle  girds  the  world: 
Of  those  dread  Maids,  whose  hideous  yell 
Maddens  the  battle's  bloody  swell ; 
Of  chiefs,  who,  guided  through  the  gloom 
By  the  pale  death-lights  of  the  tomb. 
Ransacked  the  graves  of  warriors  old. 
Their  faulchions  wrenched  from  corpses'  hold, 
Waked  the  deaf  tomb  with  war's  alarms, 
And  bade  the  dead  arise  to  arms! 
With  war  and  wonder  all  on  flame, 
To  Roslin's  bowers  young  Harold  came. 
Where,  by  sweet  glen  and  greenwood  tree, 
He  learned  a  milder  minstrelsy ; 
Yet  something  of  the  Northern  spell 
Mixed  with  the  softer  numbers  well. 


HAROLD. 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

—  "Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew! 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay ! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 


LAST    MINSTREL.  101 

"  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white ; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly: 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water  Sprite, 

Whose  screams  forbode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"Last  night  the  gifted  seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay ; 

Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch: 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day ! " 

"  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  Ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

"'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well. 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide. 
If  'tis  not  filled  by  Rosabelle." 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wonderous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire  light. 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moon-beam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock. 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse- wood  glen ; 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  caverned  Hawthornden. 

Seemed  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud, 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncofiined  lie ; 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 


102  LAY    OF    THE 

Seemed  all  on  fire  within,  around, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale ; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmered  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair  — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle ; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold  — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle. 

And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung, 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

So  sweet  was  Harold's  piteous  lay, 

Scarce  marked  the  guests  the  darkened  hall. 
Though,  long  before  the  sinking  day, 

A  wonderous  shade  involved  them  all; 
It  was  not  eddying  mist  or  fog, 
Drained  by  the  sun  from  fen  or  bog; 

Of  no  eclipse  had  sages  told; 
And  yet,  as  it  came  on  apace, 
Each  one  could  scarce  his  neighbor's  face. 

Could  scarce  his  own  stretched  hand,  behold, 
A  secret  horror  checked  the  feast. 

And  chilled  the  soul  of  every  guest; 
Even  the  high  Dame  stood  half  aghast, 
She  knew  some  evil  on  the  blast; 


!  LAST    MINSTREL.  103 

The  elvish  Page  fell  to  the  ground, 

And,  shuddering,  muttered,  "  Found !  found !  found ! " 


Then  sudden  through  the  darkened  air 

A  flash  of  lightning  came ; 
So  broad,  so  bright,  so  red  the  glare, 

The  castle  seemed  on  flame ; 
Glanced  every  rafter  of  the  hall, 
Glanced  every  shield  upon  the  wall ; 
Each  trophied  beam,  each  sculptured  stone. 
Were  instant  seen,  and  instant  gone; 
Full  through  the  guests'  bedazzled  band 
Resistless  flashed  the  levin-brand. 
And  filled  the  hall  with  smouldering  smoke, 
As  on  the  elvish  Page  it  broke. 

It  broke,  with  thunder  long  and  loud. 

Dismayed  the  brave,  appalled  the  proud, , 
From  sea  to  sea  the  larum  rung ; 

On  Berwick  wall,  and  at  Carlisle  withal, 
To  arms  the  startled  warders  sprung. 
When  ended  was  the  dreadful  roar. 
The  elvish  Dwarf  was  seen  no  more ! 


Some  heard  a  voice  in  Branksome  Hall, 
Some  saw  a  sight,  riot  seen  by  all; 
That  dreadful  voice  was  heard  by  some, 
Cry,  with  loud  summons,  "  Gylbin  come!" 
And  on  the  spot  where  burst  the  brand. 

Just  where  the  Page  had  flung  him  down, 
Some  saw  an  arm^  and  some  a  hand. 

And  some  the  waving  of  a  gown. 
The  guests  in  silence  prayed  and  shook, 
And  terror  dimmed  each  lofty  look; 


104  LAY    OF    THE 

But  none  of  all  the  astonished  train    - 
Was  so  dismayed  as  Deloraine ; 
His  blood  did  freeze,  his  brain  did  bum, 
'Twas  feared  his  mind  would  ne'er  return; 
For  he  was  speechless,  ghastly,  wan, 
Like  hira,  of  whom  the  story  ran, 
Who  spoke  the  spectre-hound  in  Man. 
At  length,  by  fits,  he  darkly  told, 
With  broken  hint,  and  shuddering  cold 
That  he  had  seen,  right  certainly, 
A  shape  vnth  amice  icrapped  around, 
With  a  wrought  Spanish  baJdric  bound, 
Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea ; 
And  knew  —  but  how  it  mattered  not  — 
It  was  the  wizard,  Michael  Scott 


The  anxious  crowd,  with  horror  pale. 
All  trembling,  heard  the  wonderous  tale; 
No  sound  was  made,  no  word  was  spoke, 
Till  noble  Angus  silence  broke ; 
And  he  a  solenm  sacred  plight 
Did  to  St,  Bryde  of  Douglas  make. 
That  he  a  pilgrimage  would  take 
To  Melrose  Abbey,  for  the  sake 
Of  Michael's  restless  sprite. 
Then  each,  to  ease  his  troubled  breast, 
To  some  blessed  saint  his  prayers  addressed - 
Some  to  St  Modan  made  their  vows, 
Some  to  St  Mary  of  the  Lowes, 
Some  to  the  Holy  Rood  of  Lisle, 
Some  to  our  Lady  of  the  isle ; 
Each  did  his  patron  witness  make. 
That  he  such  pilgrimage  would  take. 


LAST    MINSTREL.  105 

And  monks  should  sing,  and  bells  should  toll, 
All  for  the  weal  of  Michael's  soul. 
While  vows  were  ta'en,  and  prayers  were  prayed, 
*Tis  said  the  noble  Dame,  dismayed, 
Renounced,  for  aye,  dark  magic's  aid. 

Naught  of  the  bridal  will  I  tell, 
Which  after  in  short  space  befell ; 
Nor  how  brave  sons  and  daughters  fair 
Blessed  Teviot's  Flower  and  Cranstoun's  heir; 
After  such  dreadful  scene,  'twere  vain 
To  wake  the  note  of  mirth  again ; 

More  meet  it  were  to  mark  the  day 
Of  penitence  and  prayer  divine, 

When  pilgrim-chiefs,  in  sad  array, 
Sought  Melrose  holy  shrine. 

With  naked  foot,  and  sackcloth  vest. 
And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast, 

Did  every  pilgrim  go; 
The  standers-by  might  hear  uneath. 
Footstep,  or  voice,  or  high-drawn  breath, 

Through  all  the  lengthened  row : 
No  lordly  look,  no  martial  stride. 
Gone  was  their  glory,  sunk  their  pride, 

Forgotten  their  renown ; 
Silent  and  slow,  like  ghosts,  they  glide 
To  the  high  altar's  hallowed  side. 

And  there  they  kneeled  them  down; 
Above  the  suppliant  chieftains  wave 
The  banners  of  departed  brave ; 
Beneath  the  lettered  stones  were  laid 
The  ashes  of  their  fathers  dead ; 


106  LAY    OF    THE 

From  many  a  garnished  niche  around, 
Stern  saints,  and  tortured  martyrs  frowned. 


And  slow  up  the  dim  aisle  afar. 
With  sable  cowl  and  scapular, 
And  snow-white  stoles,  in  order  due, 
The  holy  Fathers,  two  and  two. 

In  long  procession  came ; 
Taper,  and  host,  and  book  they  bare, 
And  holy  banner,  flourished  fair 

With  the  Redeemer's  name ; 
Above  the  prostrate  pilgrim  band 
The  mitred  Abbot  stretched  his  hand. 

And  blessed  them  as  they  kneeled; 
With  holy  cross  he  signed  them  all. 
And  prayed  they  might  be  sage  in  hall. 

And  fortunate  in  field. 


Then  mass  was  sung,  and  prayers  were  said, 
And  solemn  requiem  for  the  dead; 
And  bells  tolled  out  their  mighty  peal. 
For  the  departed  spirit's  weal ; 
And  ever  in  the  office  close 
The  hymn  of  intercession  rose ; 
And  far  the  echoing  aisles  prolong 
The  awful  burthen  of  the  song,  — 
Dies  ir^,  dies  illa, 

SOLVET    S^CLUM    IN    FAVILLA  ; 

While  the  pealing  organ  rung ; 
Were  it  meet  with  sacred  strain 
To  close  my  lay,  so  light  and  vain, 

Thus  the  holy  father  sung. 


LAST    MmSTREL. 


HYMN    FOR    THE    DEA.D. 


107 


The  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away. 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's  stay? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day? 
When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll. 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread. 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead; 
O  !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day. 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay. 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinner's  stay. 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away' 


Hushed  is  the  harp  —  the  Minstrel  gone, 
And  did  he  wander  forth  alone? 
Alone,  in  indigence  and  age. 
To  linger  out  his  pilgrimage  ? 
No  —  close  beneath  proud  Newark's  tower, 
Arose  the  Minstrel's  lowly  bower; 
A  simple  hut;  but  there  was  seen 
The  little  garden  hedged  with  green, 
The  cheerful  hearth,  and  lattice  clean. 
There  sheltered  wanderers,  by  the  blaze. 
Oft  heard  the  tale  of  other  days ; 
For  much  he  loved  to  ope  his  door. 
And  give  the  aid  he  begged  before. 
So  passed  the  winter's  day;  but  still, 
When  summer  smiled  on  sweet  Bowhill, 
And  July's  eve,  with  balmy  breath, 
Waved  the  blue-bells  on  Newark-heath; 


108  LAY    OF    the'  last    MINSTREL. 

When  throstles  sung  in  Hare-head  shaw, 
And  corn  was  green  on  Caterhaugh, 
And  flourished,  broad,  Blackandro's  oak, 
The  aged  Harper's  soul  awoke ; 
Then  would  he  sing  achievements  high, 
And  circumstance  of  chivalry, 
Till  the  rapt  traveller  would^  stay, 
Forgetful  of  the  closing  day ; 
And  noble  youths,  the  strain  to  hear. 
Forsook  the  hunting  of  the  deer; 
And  Yarrow  as  he  rolled  along, 
Bore  burden  to  the  Minstrel's  song. 


MARMION 


TALE    OF    FLODDEN    FIELD, 


MARMION 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FIRST. 

November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear: 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn, 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen. 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken. 
So  thick  the  tangled  greenwood  grew, 
So  feeble  trilled  the  streamlet  through: 
Now,  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green, 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade, 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade. 
And,  foaming  brown  with  doubled  speed. 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 

No  longer  Autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  Forest  hills  is  shed ; 
No  more,  beneath  the  evening  beam. 
Fan-  Tweed  reflects  their  purple  gleam; 
Away  hath  passed  the  heather-bell, 
That  bloomed  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell ; 
Sallow  his  brow,  and  russet  bare 
Are  now  the  sister-heights  of  Yare. 


112  MARMION. 

The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven, 
To  sheltered  dale  and  down  are  driven. 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines. 
And  yet  a  watery  sunbeam  shines : 
In  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  withered  sward  and  wintry  sky, 
And  far  beneath  their  summer  hill. 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill: 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold. 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold; 
His  dogs  no  merry  circles  wheel, 
But,  shivering,  follow  at  his  heel; 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast. 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 


My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  wild. 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child, 
Feel  the  sad  influence  of  the  hour. 
And  wail  the  daisy's  vanished  flower ; 
Their  summer  gambols  tell,  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask,  —  Will  spring  return. 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay. 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray? 


Yes,  prattlers,  yes.    The  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie  ; 
The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round. 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they. 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day. 


MARMION.  113 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings; 
The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  re-appears. 
But  O !  my  country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate  ? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike,  and  the  wise ; 
The  mind,  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal. 
The  hand,  that  grasped  the  victor  steel? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 
Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows; 
But  vainly,  vainly,  may  he  shine, 
Where  Glory  weeps  o'er  Nelson's  shrine; 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom, 
That  shrouds,  O  Pitt,  thy  hallowed  tomb ! 

Deep  grayed  in  every  British  heart, 

O  never  let  those  names  depart! 

Say  to  your  sons,  — Lo,  here  his  grave, 

Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave; 

To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin. 

Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given; 

Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found. 

Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound. 

Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 

Rolled,  blazed,  destroyed,  —  and  was  no  more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perished  worth, 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth. 
And  launched  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,  Trafalgar; 
Who,  bom  to  guide  such  high  emprize, 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise; 

10* 


114  -  MARMION. 


Alas!  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave  ; 
His  worth,  who,  in  his  mightiest  hour,   / 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power,        j 
Spurned  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strained  at  subjection's  bursting  rein. 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gained, 
The  pride,  he  would  not  crush,  restrained, 
Showed  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause, 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to   aid  the 
freeman's  laws. 


Had'st  thou  but  lived,  though  stripp'd  of  power, 

A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower. 

Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land. 

When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand; 

By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light. 

Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright; 

As  some  proud  column,  though  alone. 

Thy  strength  had  propp'd  the  tottering  throne. 

Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 

The  beacon-light  is  quenched  in  smoke, 

The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still, 

The  warder  silent  on  the  hill! 


Oh,  think,  how  to  his  latest  day. 

When  Death,  just  hovering,  claimed  his  prey. 

With  Palinure's  unaltered  mood. 

Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood. 

Each  call  for  needful  rest  repelled. 

With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held. 


MARMION.  115 

Till,  in  his  fall,  with  fateful  sway. 
The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains, 
One  unpolluted  church  remains. 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 
But  still,  upon  the  hallowed  day. 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray ; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear, — 
He,  who  preserved  them,  Pitt,  lies  here. 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh, 
Because  his  Rival  slumbers  nigh; 
Nor  be  thy  requiescat  dumb. 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost. 
When  best  employed,  and  wanted  most; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound. 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound ; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine. 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow, — 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below ; 
And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave. 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppressed. 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest 
fZere,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung, 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song, 


I 

I  116 


As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 
All  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men; 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 
O  here  let  prejudice  depart. 
And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 
Record,  that  Fox  a  Briton  died! 
When  Europe  crouched  to  France's  yoke, 
And  Austria  bent  and  Prussia  broke, 
And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  bartered  by  a  timorous  slave. 
Even  then  dishonor's  peace  he  spurned. 
The  sullied  olive-branch  returned, 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast, 
And  nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave, 
A  portion  in  this  honored  grave ; 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust 


With  more  than  mortal  powers  endowed, 
How  high  they  soared  above  the  crowd ! 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race. 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place ; 
Like  fabled  Gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar ; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 
Looked  up  the  noblest  of  the  land, 
Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 
The  names  of  Pitt  and  Fox  alone. 
Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 
E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave, 
Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 
And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 


MARMION.  117 

These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with  these, 

The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees. 

Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone, 

For  ever  tombed  beneath  the  stone, 

Where, — taming  thought  to  human  pride!  — 

The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 

Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 

'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier; 

O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound. 

And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 

The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, — 

"Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die  ; 

Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom. 

Whom  Fate  made  brothers  in  the  tomb. 

But  search  the  land  of  living  men. 

Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen?" 

Rest,  ardent  Spirits!  till  the  cries 
Of  dying  Nature  bid  you  rise; 
Not  even  your  Britain's  groans  can  pierce 
The  leaden  silence  of  your  hearse: 
Then,  O  how  impotent  and  vain 
This  grateful  tributary  strain! 
Though  not  unmarked  from  northern  clime, 
Ye  heard  the  Border  Minstrel's  rhyme: 
His  Gothic  harp  has  o'er  you  rung; 
The  bard  you  deigned  to  praise,  your  deathless 
names  has  sung. 

Stay  yet,  illusion,  stay  awhile, 
My  wildered  fancy  still  beguile! 
From  this  high  theme  how  can  I  part, 
Ere  half  unloaded  is  my  heart! 


118  MARMION. 

For  all  the  tears  e'er  sorrow  drew, 

An^  all  the  raptures  fancy  knew, 

And  all  the  keener  rush  of  blood, 

That  throbs  through  bard  in  bard-like  mood, 

Were  here  a  tribute  mean  and  low, 

Though  all  their  mingled  streams  could  flow  — 

Woe,  wonder,  and  sensation  high, 

In  one  spring-tide  of  ecstaisy.  — 

It  will  not  be-  it  may  not  last  — 

The  vision  of  enchantment's  past: 

Like  frost-work  in  the  morning  ray. 

The  fancied  fabric  melts  away ; 

Each  Gothic  arch,  memorial  stone. 

And  long,  dim,  lofty  aisle  are  gone, 

And,  lingering  last,  deception  dear. 

The  choir's  high  sounds  die  on  my  ear. 

Now  slow  return  the  lonely  down, 

The  silent  pastures  bleak  and  brown, 

The  farm  begirt  with  copse-wood  wild, 

The  gambols  of  each  frolic  child. 

Mixing  their  shrill  cries  with  the  tone 

Of  Tweed's  dark  waters  rushing  on. 

Prompt  on  unequal  tasks  to  run, 

Thus  Nature  disciplines  her  son: 

Meeter,  she  says,  for  me  to  stray. 

And  waste  the  solitary  day. 

In  plucking  from  yon  fen  the  reed. 

And  watching  it  float  down  the  Tweed ; 

Or  idly  list  the  shrilling  lay 

With  which  the  milk-maid  cheers  her  way. 

Marking  its  cadence  rise  and  fail. 

As  from  the  field,  beneath  her  pail, 

She  trips  it  down  the  uneven  dale : 


MARMION.  119 

Meeter  for  me,  by  yonder  cairn, 
The  ancient  shepherd's  tale  to  learn. 
Though  oft  he  stop  in  rustic  fear, 
Lest  his  old  legends  tire  the  ear 
Of  one,  who,  in  his  simple  mind, 
May  boast  of  book-learned  ta§te  refined. 

But  thou,  my  friend,  canst  fitly  tell, 
(For  few  have  read  romance  so  well,) 
How  still  the  legendary  lay 
O'er  poet's  bosom  holds  its  sway; 
How  on  the  ancient  minstrel  strain 
Time  lays  his  palsied  hand  in  vain; 
And  how  our  hearts  at  doughty  deeds 
By  warriors  wrought  in  steely  weeds. 
Still  throb  for  fear  and  pity's  sake; 
As  when  the  Champion  of  the  Lake 
Enters  Morgana's  fated  house, 
Or  in  the  Chapel  Perilous, 
Despising  spells  and  demons'  force, 
Holds  converse  with  the  unburied  corse; 
Or  when,  Dame  Ganore's  grace  to  move, 
(Alas!  that  lawless  was  their  love,) 
He  sought  proud  Tarquin  in  his  den. 
And  freed  full  sixty  knights ;  or  when, 
A  sinful  man,  and  unconfessed, 
He  took  the  Sangreal's  holy  quest, 
And,  slumbering,  saw  the  vision  high, 
He  might  not  view  with  waking  eye. 

The  mightiest  chiefs  of  British  song 
Scorned  not  such  legends  to  prolong: 
They  gleam  through  Spenser's  elfin  dream, 
And  mix  in  Milton's  heavenly  theme; 


120  MARMION. 

And  Diyden,  in  immortal  strain, 
Had  raised  the  Table  Round  again, 
But  that  a  ribald  king  and  court 
Bade  him  toil  on,  to  make  them  sport; 
Demanded  for  their  niggard  pay, 
But  for  their  souls  a  looser  lay, 
Licentious  satire,  song,  and  play ;  ^ 
The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design, 
Profaned   the    God-given   strength,  and  marred 
the  lofty  line. 


Warmed  by  such  names,  well  may  we  then. 

Though  dwindled  sons  of  little  men. 

Essay  to  break  a  feeble  lance 

In  the  fair  fields  of  old  romance  ; 

Or  seek  the  moated  castle's  cell, 

Where  long  through  talisman  and  spell, 

While  tyrants  rule^,  and  damsels  wept, 

Thy  Genius,  Chivalry,  hath  slept: 

There  sound  the  liarpings  of  the  North,  ** 

Till  he  awake  and  sally  forth. 

On  venturous  quest  to  prick  again,  ! 

In  all  his  arms,  with  all  his  train, 

Shield,  lance,  and  brand,  and  plume,  and  scarf, 

Fay,  giant,  dragon,  squire,  and  dwarf. 

And  wizard  with  his  wand  of  might, 

And  errant  maid  on  palfrey  white. 

Around  the  Genius  weave  their  spells. 

Pure  Love,  who  scarce  his  passion  tells ; 

Mystery,  half  veiled  and  half  revealed ; 

And  Honor,  with  his  spotless  shield ; 

Attention,  witli  fixed  eye ;  and  Fear, 

That  loves  the  tale  she  shrinks  to  hear; 


MARMION.  121 

And  gentle  Courtesy;  and  Faith, 
Unchanged  by  sufferings,  time,  or  death; 
And  Valor,  lion-mettled  lord, 
Leaning  upon  his  own  good  sword. 

Well  has  thy  fair  achievement  shown, 
A  worthy  meed  may  thus  be  won; 
Ytene's  oaks  —  beneath  whose  shade 
Their  theme  the  merry  minstrels  made, 
Of  Ascapart,  and  Bevis  bold, 
And  that  Red  King,  who,  while  of  old 
Through  Boldrewood  the  chase  he  led. 
By  his  loved  huntsman's  arrow  bled  — 
Ytene's  oaks  have  heard  again 
Renewed  such  legendary  strain ; 
For  thou  hast  sung,  how  He  of  Gaul, 
That  Amadis  so  famed  in  hall, 
For  Oriana,  foiled  in  fight 
The  Necromancer's  felon  might ; 
And  well  in  modem  verse  hast  wove 
Partenopex's  mystic  love : 
Hear  then,  attentive  to  my  lay, 
A  knightly  tale  of  Albion's  elder  day. 
11 


122  MARMION. 


CANTO  FIRST. 


THE   CASTLE. 


Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone : 
The  battled  towers,  the  Donjon  Keep, 
The  loop-hole  grates  where  captives  weep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height: 
Their  armor,  as  it  caught  the  rays. 
Flashed  back  again  the  western  blaze. 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light 


St  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay, 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung ; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  Donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search. 

The  castle  gates  were  barred; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch. 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march. 

The  warder  kept  his  guard, 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along, 
Some  ancient  Border  gathering  song. 


MARMION.  123 

A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears; 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears, 
O'er  Homcliff-hill,  a  plump  of  spears, 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay; 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd. 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud, 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud. 

Before  the  dark  array. 
Beneath  the  sable  palisade, 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade. 

His  bugle-horn  he  blew; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall. 
And  warned  the  Captain  in  the  hall. 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew; 
And  joyfully  that  Knight  did  call, 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 


"Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe. 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 
And  bid  my  heralds  ready  be, 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee. 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow; 
And,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noble  salvo-shot: 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below."  — 
Then  to  the  Castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-studdied  gates  unbarred. 
Raised  the  portcullis'  ponderous  guard, 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparred. 

And  let  the  draw-bridge  fall. 


124  IVIARMION. 

Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode, 
Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trod, 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle-bow; 
Well,  by  his  visage,  you  might  know- 
He  was  a  stalwart  knight,  and  keen. 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been; 
The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  revealed 
A  token  true  of  Bosworth  field; 
/     His  eye-brow  dark,  and  eye  of  fire. 
Showed  spirit  proud,  and  prompt  to  ire; 
Yet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek. 
Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 
His  thick  mustache,  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there. 

But  more  through  toil  than  age  ; 
His  square-turned  joints,  and  strength  of  limb, 
Showed  him  no  cajpet  knight  so  trim, 
But,  in  close  fight,  a  champion  grim. 
In  camps,  a  leader  sage. 


Well  was  he  armed 

In  mail,  and  plate,  of  Milan  steel; 

But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost. 

Was  all  with  burnished  gold  embossed; 

Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest, 

A  falcon  hovered  on  her  nest,    ^ 

With  wings  outspread,  and  forward  breast; 

E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield. 

Soared  sable  in  an  azure  field : 

The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 

"Who  checks  at  me,  to  death  is  diqht." 


MARMION.  1^ 

Blue  was  the  charger's  broidered  rein ; 
Blue  ribbons  decked  his  arching  mane ; 
The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 
Was  velvet  blue,  and  trapped  Avith  gold. 

Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires, 
Of  noble  name,  and  knightly  sires ; 
They  burned  the  gilded  spurs  to  claim; 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame, 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could  sway. 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored, 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board, 
And  frame  love  ditties  passing  rare. 
And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair. 

Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs. 

With  halbard,  bill  and  battle-axe: 

They  bore  Lord  Marmion's  lance  so  strong, 

And  led  his  sumpter  mules  along. 

And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 

Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 

The  last,  and  trustiest  of  the  four, 

On  high  his  Rrky  pennon  bore ;  ^ 

Like  swallow's  tail,  in  shape  and  hue. 

Fluttered  the  streamer  glossy  blue. 

Where,  blazoned  sable,  as  before, 

Tiie  towering  falcon  seemed  to  soar. 

Last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two. 

In  hosen  black,  and  jerkins  blue. 

With  falcons  broidered  on  each  breast, 

Attended  on  their  lord's  behest. 

Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good. 

Knew  hunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood ; 
11* 


126  MARMION. 

Each  one  a  six-foot  bow  could  bend, 
And  far  a  cloth-yard  shaft  could  send : 
Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong, 
And  at  their  belts  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys,  and  array. 
Showed  they  had  marched  a  weary  way. 


'Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  now. 
How  fairly  armed,  and  ordered  how. 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard, 
With  musket,  pike,  and  morion. 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion, 

Stood  in  the  castle-yard; 
Minstrels  and  trumpeters  were  there, 
The  gunner  held  his  linstock  yare, 

For  welcome-shot  prepared: 
Entered  the  train,  and  such  a  clang. 
As  then  through  all  his  turrets  rang. 

Old  Norham  never  heard. 


The  guards  their  morrice-pikes  advanced. 

The  trumpets  flourished  brave. 
The  cannon  from  the  ramparts  glanced. 

And  thundering  welcome  gave. 
A  blythe  salute,  in  martial  sort, 

The  minstrels  well  might  sound, 
For,  as  Lord  Marmion  crossed  the  court, 

He  scattered  angels  round. 
"  Welcome  to  Norham,  Marmion ! 

Stout  heart,  and  open  hand! 
Well  dost  thou  brook  thy  gallant  roan. 

Thou  flower  of  English  land  !  "  — 


fS6f 


Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabards  deck, 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck, 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone, 
By  which  you  reach  the  Donjon  gate. 
And  there,  with  herald  pomp  and  state. 

They  hailed  Lord  Marmion : 
They  hailed  him  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward  and  Scrivelbaye, 

Of  Tamworth  tower  and  town ; 
And  he,  their  courtesy  to  requite. 
Gave  them  a  chain  of  twelve  marks  weight, 

All  as  he  lighted  down. 
"  Now  largesse,  largesse.  Lord  Marmion, 

Knight  of  the  crest  of  gold ! 
A  blazoned  shield,  in  battle  won. 

Ne'er  guarded  heart  so  bold."  — 


They  marshalled  him  to  the  castle-hall, 

Where  the  guests  stood  all  aside. 
And  loudly  flourished  the  trumpet-call, 

And  the  heralds -loudly  cried, 
"  Room,  lordlings,  room  for  Lord  Marmion, 

With  the  crest  and  hehn  of  gold! 
Full  well  we  know  the  trophies  won 

In  the  lists  at  Cottiswold: 
There  vainly  Ralph  de  Wilton  strove 

'Gainst  Marmion's  force  to  stand ; 
To  him  he  lost  his  ladye-love. 

And  to  the  king  his  land. 
Ourselves  beheld  the  listed  field, 

A  sight  both  sad  and  fair; 
We  saw  Lord  Marmion  pierce  his  shield, 

And  saw  his  saddle  bare ; 


128  MARMION. 

We  saw  the  victor  win  the  crest, 

He  wears  with  worthy  pride ; 
And  on  the  gibbet-tree,  reversed, 

His  foeman's  scutcheon  tied. 
Place,  nobles,  for  the  Falcon  Knight! 

Room,  room  ye  gentles  gay. 
For  him  who  conquered  in  the  right, 

Marmion  of  Fontenaye  ! "  — 


Then  stepped  to  meet  that  noble  lord, 

Su-  Hugh  the  Heron  bold, 
Baron  of  Twisell,  and  of  Ford, 

And  Captain  of  the  Hold. 
He  led  Lord  Marmion  to  the  deas,. 

Raised  o'er  the  pavement  high. 
And  placed  him  in  the  upper  place  — 

They  feasted  full  and  high: 
The  whiles  a  Northern  harper  rude 
Chanted  a  rhyme  of  deadly  feud, 

^^  How  the  fierce  Thirwalls,  and  Ridleys  aUj 
Stout  WUlimondsioickf 
And  Hard-riding  Dick^ 

And  Hughie  of  Hawdon^  and  Will  6'  the  WaU^ 
Have  set  on  Sir  Albany  Featherstonhaugh, 
And  taken  his  life  at  the  Deadman's-sh^tw" 


Scantly  Lord  Marmion's  ear  could  brook 

The  harper's  barbarous  lay ; 
Yet  much  he  praised  the  pains  he  took, 
And  well  those  pains  did  pay: 
For  lady's  suit,  and  minstrel's  strain, 
By  knight  should  ne'er  be  heard  in  vain. 


MARMION. 


129 


«Now,  good  Lord  Marmion,"  Heron  says, 

"Of  your  fair  courtesy, 
I  pray  you  bide  some  little  space, 

In  this  poor  tower  with  me. 
Here  may  you  keep  your  arms  from  rust, 

May  breathe  your  war-horse  well; 
Seldom  hath  passed  a  week,  but  giust  {,  W-sA^.  ) 

Or  feat  of  arms  befell:  ^ 

The  Scots  can  rein  a  mettled  steed, 

And  love  to  couch  a  spear;  — 
St  George!  a  stirring  life  they  lead. 

That  have  such  neighbors  near. 
Then  stay  with  us  a  little  space. 

Our  northern  wars  to  learn ; 
I  pray  you  for  your  lady's  grace." 

Lord  Marmion's  brow  grew  stem. 


The  Captain  mark'd  his  altered  look, 

And  gave  a  squire  the  sign; 
A  mighty  wassail  bowl  he  took, 

And  crowned  it  high  with  wine. 
"Now  pledge  me  here,  Lord  Marmion: 

But  first  I  pray  thee  fair. 
Where  hast  thou  left  that  Page  of  thine, 
That  used  to  serve  thy  cup  of  wine. 

Whose  beauty  was  so  rare? 
When  last  in  Raby  towers  we  met. 

The  boy  I  closely  eyed, 
And  often  marked  his  cheeks  were  wet. 

With  tears  he  fain  would  hide: 
His  was  no  rugged  horse-boy's  hand, 
To  burnish  shield,  or  sharpen  brand. 

Or  saddle  battle-steed ; 


130  MARMION. 

But  meeter  seemed  for  lady  fair, 

To  fan  her  cheek,  or  curl  her  hair, 
Or  through  embroidery,  rich  and  rare, 

The  slender  silk  to  lead: 
His  skin  was  fair,  his  ringlets  gold, 

His  bosom  —  when  he  sigh'd. 
The  russet  doublet's  rugged  fold 

Could  scarce  repel  its  pride! 
Say,  hast  thou  given  that  lovely  youth 

To  serve  in  lady's  bower? 
Or  was  the  gentle  page,  in  sooth, 

A  gentle  paramour?"  — 

Lord  Marmion  ill  could  brook  such  jest 

He  rolled  his  kindling  eye. 
With  pain  his  rising  wrath  suppressed. 

Yet  made  a  calm  reply: 
"That  boy  thou  thought'st  so  goodly  fair, 

He  might  not  brook  the  northern  air, 
More  of  his  fate  if  thou  would'st  learn, 

I  left  him  sick  in  Lindisfarn: 
Enough  of  him.  —  But,  Heron,  say. 
Why  does  thy  lovely  lady  gay 
Disdain  to  grace  the  hall  to-day  ? 
Or  has  that  dame,  so  fair  and  sage. 
Gone  on  some  pious  pilgrimage?"  — 
He  spoke  in  covert  scorn,  for  fame 
Whispered  light  tales  of  Heron's  dame. 

Unmarked,  at  least  unrecked  the  taunt, 
Careless  the  Knight  replied, 

"No  bird,  whose  feathers  gayly  flaunt, 
Delights  in  cage  to  bide : 


MARMION.  131 

Norham  is  grim,  and  grated  close, 
Heipmed  in  by  battlement  and  fosse, 

And  many  a  darksome  tower ; 
And  better  loves  my  lady  bright. 
To  sit  in  liberty  and  light, 

In  fair  Queen  Margaret's  bower. 
We  hold  our  greyhound  in  our  hand, 

Our  falcon  on  our  glove ; 
But  where  shall  we  find  leash  or  band, 

For  dame  that  loves  to  rove  ? 
Let  the  wild  falcon  soar  her  swing. 
She'll  stoop  when  she  has  tired  her  wing."  — 

"Nay,  if  with  Royal  James*s  bride 

The  lovely  Lady  Heron  bide, 

Behold  me  here  a  messenger, 

Your  tender  greetings  prompt  to  bear; 

For,  to  the  Scottish  court  addressed,     * 

I  journey  at  our  king's  behest, 

And  pray  you,  of  your  grace,  provide 

For  me,  and  mine,  a  trusty  guide. 

I  have  not  ridden  in  Scotland  since 

James  backed  the  cause  of  that  mock  prince, 

Warbeck,  that  Flemish  counterfeit, 

Who  on  the  gibbet  paid  the  cheat 

Then  did  I  march  with  Surrey's  power, 

What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower."  — 

"For  such  like  need,  my  lord,  I  trow, 
Norham  can  find  you  guides  enow; 
For  here  be  some  have  pricked  as  far 
On  Scottish  ground,  as  to  Dunbar; 
Have  drunk  the  monks  of  St.  Bothan's  ale, 
And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale; 


132  MARMION. 

Harried  the  wives  of  Greenlaw's  goods, 
And  given  them  light  to  set  their  hoods, 


"Now,  in  good  sooth,"  Lord  Marraion  cried, 

"  Were  I  in  warlike-wise  to  ride, 

A  better  guard  I  would  not  lack. 

Than  your  stout  forayers  at  my  back; 

But,  as  in  form  of  peace  I  go, 

A  friendly  messenger,  to  know. 

Why  through  all  Scotland,  near  and  far, 

Their  king  is  mustering  troops  for  war, 

The  sight  of  plundering  Border  spears 

Might  justify  suspicious  fears, 

And  deadly  feud,  or  thirst  of  spoil. 

Break  out  in  some  unseemly  broil: 

A  herald  were  my  fitting  guide; 

Or  friar,  sworn  in  peace  to  bide ; 

Or  j)ardoner,  or  travelling  priest, 

Or  strolling  pilgrim,^  at  the  least." 

The  Captain  mused  a  little  space. 

And  passed  his  hand  across  his  face. 

—  "Fain  would  I  find  the  guide  you  want, 

But  ill  may  spare  a  pursuivant. 

The  only  men  that  safe  can  ride 

Mine  errands  on  the  Scottish  side. 

Then,  though  a  bishop  built  this  fort, 

Few  holy  brethren  here  resort; 

Even  our  good  chaplain,  as  I  ween, 

Since  our  last  siege,  we  have  not  seen: 

The  mass  he  might  not  sing  or  say, 

Upon  one  stinted  meal  a  day; 

So,  safe  he  sat  in  Durham  aisle. 

And  prayed  for  our  success  the  while. 


MARMION.  m 

Our  Norham  vicar,  woe  betide, 

Is  all  too  well  in  case  to  ride. 

The  priest  of  Shoreswood  —  he  could  rein 

The  wildest  war-horse  in  your  train ; 

But  then,  no  spearman  in  the  hall 

Will  sooner  swear,  or  stab,  or  brawl. 

Friar  John  of  Tillmouth  were  the  man; 

A  blithesome  brother  at  the  can, 

A  welcome  guest  in  haU  and  bower. 

He  knows  each  castle,  town,  and  tower, 

In  which  the  wine  and  ale  is  good, 

'Twixt  Newcastle  and  Holy-Rood. 

But  that  good  man,  as  ill  befalls. 

Hath  seldom  left  our  castle  walls, 

Since  on  the  vigil  of  St.  Bede, 

In  evil  hour,  he  crossed  the  Tweed, 

To  teach  Dame  Alison  her  creed. 

Old  Bughtrig  found  him  with  his  wife ; 

And  John,  an  enemy  to  strife, 

Sans  frock  and  hood,  fled  for  his  life. 

The  jealous  churl  hath  deeply  swore, 

That  if  again  he  ventures  o'er. 

He  shall  shrieve  penitent  no  more. 

Little  he  loves  such  risks,  I  know; 

Yet,  in  your  guard,  perchance  will  go." 


Young  Selby,  at  the  fair  hall-board, 
Carved  to  his  uncle,  and  that  lord, 
And  reverently  took  up  the  word. 
"  Kind  uncle,  woe  were  we  each  one, 
If  harm  should  hap  to  Brother  John. 
He  is  a  man  of  mirthful  speech. 
Can  many  a  game  and  gambol  teach ; 

12 


134  MARMION. 

Full  well  at  tables  can  lie  play, 
And  sweep  at  bowls  the  stake  away, 
None  can  a  lustier  carol  bawl, 
The  needfullest  amoug  us  all. 
When  time  hangs  heavy  in  the  hall. 
And  snow  comes  thick  at  Christmas  tide. 
And  we  can  neither  hunt,  nor  ride 
A  foray  on  the  Scottish  side. 
The  vowed  revenge  of  Bughtrig  rude. 
May  end  in  worse  than  loss  of  hood. 
Let  Friar  John,  in  safety,  still 
In  chimney-corner  snore  his  fill. 
Roast  hissing  crabs,  or  flagons  swill : 
Last  night,  to  Norham  there  came  one, 
Will  better  guide  Lord  Marraion."  — 
"Nephew,"  quoth  Heron,  "by  my  fay 
Well  hast  thou  spoke ;  say  forth  thy  say." 


"Here  is  a  holy  Palmer  come. 
From  Salem  first,  and  last  from  Rome ; 
One,  that  hath  kissed  the  blessed  tomb, 
And  visited  each  holy  shrine, 
In  Araby  and  Palestine. 
On  hills  of  Armenie  hath  been. 
Where  Noah's  ark  may  yet  be  seen; 
By  that  Red  Sea,  too,  hath  he  trod. 
Which  parted  at  the  prophet's  rod; 
In  Sinai's  wilderness  he  saw 
The  mount,  where  Israel  heard  the  law, 
Mid  thunder-dint,  and  flashing  levin. 
And  shadows,  mists,  and  darkness,  given. 
He  shows  Saint  James's  cockle-shell, 
Of  fair  Montserrat,  too,  can  tell; 


MARMION. 

And  of  that  Grot  where  Olives  nod, 
Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 

Saint  Rosalie  retired  to  God. 

"To  stout  Saint  George  of  Norwich  merry, 
Saint  Thomas,  too,  of  Canterbury, 
Cumbert  of  Durham  and  Saint  Bede, 
For  his  sins'  pardon  hath  he  prayed. 
He  knows  the  passes  of  the  North, 
And  seeks  far  shrines  beyond  the  Forth; 
Little  he  eats,  and  long  will  wake. 
And  drinks  but  of  the  stream  or  lake. 
This  were  a  guide  o'er  moor  and  dale; 
But,  when  our  John  hath  quaffed  his  ale. 
As  little  as  the  wind  that  blows. 
And  warms  itself  against  his  nose. 
Kens  he,  or  cares,  which  way  he  goes."  — 

"Gramercy!"  quoth  Lord  Marmion, 
*•  Full  loth  were  I,  that  Friar  John, 
That  venerable  man,  for  me. 
Were  placed  in  fear,  or  jeopardy. 

If  this  same  Palmer  will  me  lead 
From  hence  to  Holy-Rood, 

Like  his  good  saint,  I'll  pay  his  meed, 

Instead  of  cockle-shell,  or  bead. 
With  angels  fair  and  good. 
I  love  such  holy  ramblers;  still 
They  know  to  charm  a  weary  hill,     , 

With  song,  romance,  or  lay: 
Some  jovial  tale,  or  glee,  or  jest, 
Some  lying  legend  at  the  least, 

They  bring  to  cheer  the  way."  — 


136  MARMION. 

"Ah!  noble  sir,"  young  Selby  said, 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 

"This  man  knows  much,  perchance  e'en  more 

Than  he  could  learn  by  holy  lore. 

Still  to  himself  he's  muttering, 

And  shrinks  as  at  some  unseen  thing. 

Last  night  we  listened  at  his  cell ; 

Strange  sounds  we  heard,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 

He  murmured  on  till  morn,  howe'er 

No  living  mortal  could  be  near. 

Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  it  plain. 

As  other  voices  spoke  again. 

I  cannot  tell  —  I  like  it  not  — 

Friar  John  hath  told  us  it  is  wrote. 

No  conscience  clear,  and  void  of  wrong, 

Can  rest  awake,  and  pray  so  long. 

Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 

Have  marked  ten  aves,  and  two  creeds."  — 


"Let  pass,"  quotli  Marmion;  "by  my  fay, 
This  man  shall  guide  me  on  my  way, 
Although  the  great  arch-fiend  and  he 
Had  sworn  themselves  of  company; 
So  please  you,  gentle  youth,  to  call       ' 
This  Palmer  to  the  castle-hall."  — 
The  summoned  Palmer  came  in  place ; 
His  sable  cowl  o'erhung  his  face; 

In  his  black  mantle  was  he  clad, 

With  Peter's  keys,  in  cloth  of  red. 
On  his  broad  shoulders  wrought; 

The  scallop  shell  his  cap  did  deck; 

The  crucifix  around  his  neck 
Was  from  Loretto  brought; 


MARMION.  137 

His  sandals  were  with  travel  tore, 
Staff,  budget,  bottle,  scrip,  he  wore; 
The  faded  palm-branch  in  his  hand, 
Showed  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 

When  as  the  Palmer  came  in  hall, 

Nor  lord,  nor  knight,  was  there  more  tall, 

Or  had  a  statelier  step  withal. 

Or  looked  more  high  and  keen; 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait. 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state. 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate, 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But  his  gaunt  frame  was  worn  with  toil; 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas  the  while ! 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile. 

His  eye  looked  haggard  wild. 
Poor  wretch!  the  mother  that  him  bare. 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there. 
In  his  wan  face,  and  sun-hurned  hair, 

She  had  not  known  her  child.  ..^^^^ 

danger,  long  travel,  Avant,  or  woe, 
joon  change  the  form  that  best  we  know 
^or  deadly  fear  can  time  outgo, 
And  blanch  at  once  the  hair  ; 
[ard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 
Lnd  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright  grace, 
/Nor  ^oes  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace. 

More  deeply  than  despair. 
Happy  whom  none  of  these  befall. 
But  this  poor  Palmer  knew  them  all. 

Lord  Marmion  tiien  his  boon  did  ask; 
The  Palmer  took  on  him  the  task, 

151* 


-1/ 

•! 


138  MARMION. 

So  he  would  march  with  morning  tide, 
To  Scottish  court  to  be  his  guide. 
—  "But  I  have  solemn  vows  to  pay, 
And  may  not  linger  by  the  way, 

To  fair  St  Andrew's  bound, 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  pray. 
Where  good  Saint  Rule  his  holy  lay. 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day. 

Sung  to  the  billows'  sound; 
Thence  to  Saint  Fillan's  blessed  well. 
Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel, 

And  the  crazed  brain  restore :  — 
Saint  Mary  grant,  that  cave  or  spring 
Could  back  to  peace  my  bosom  bring. 

Or  bid  it  throb  no  more  ! "  — 


And  now  the  midnight  draught  of  sleep, 
Where  wine  and  spices  richly  steep, 
In  massive  bowl  of  silver  deep, 

The  page  presents  on  knee. 
Lord  Marmion  drank  a  fair  good  rest. 
The  Captain  pledged  his  noble  guest. 
The  cup  went  through  among  the  rest, 

Who  drained  it  merrily; 
Alone  the  Palmer  passed  it  by. 
Though  Selby  pressed  him  courteously. 

This  was  the  sign  the  feast  was  o'er; 

It  hushed  the  merry  wassail  roar. 
The  minstrels  ceased  to  sound. 

Soon  in  the  castle  naught  was  heard, 

But  the  slow  footstep  of  the  guard. 
Pacing  his  sober  round. 


MARMION. 


139 


With  early  dawn  Lord  Marmion  rose : 
And  first  the  chapel  doors  unclose; 
Then,  after  morning  rites  were  done, 
(A  hasty  mass  from  Friar  John,) 
And  knight  and  squire  had  broke  their  fast 
On  ricS  substantial  repast, 
Lord  Marmion's  bugle  blew  to  horse. 
Then  came  the  stirrup-cup  in  course; 
Between  the  Baron  and  his  host, 
No  point  of  courtesy  was  lost: 
High  thanks  were  by  Lord  Marmion  paid, 
Solemn  excuse  the  Captain  made, 
Till,  filing  from  the  gate,  had  past 
That  noble  train,  their  lord  the  last. 
Then  loudly  rung  the  trumpet-call, 
Thundered  the  cannon  from  the  wall, 

And  shook  the  Scottish  shore; 
Around  the  castle  eddied,  slow, 
Volumes  of  smoke  as  white  as  snow, 
And  hid  its  turrets  hoar; 
Till  they  rolled  forth  upon  the  air, 
And  met  the  river  breezes  there. 
Which  gave  again  the  prospect  fair. 


140  MARMION. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SECOND. 

The  scenes  are  desert  now  and  bare, 

Where  flourished  once  a  forest  fair,   ' 

When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were  lined, 

And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 

Yon  thorn  —  perchance  whose  prickly  spears 

Have  fenced  him  for  three  hundred  years, 

While  fell  around  his  green  compeers  — 

Yon  lonely  thorn,  would  he  could  tell 

The  changes  of  his  parent  dell. 

Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now. 

Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bough ; 

Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 

A  thousand  mingled  branches  made ; 

How  broad  the  shadows  of  the  oak, 

How  clung  the  rowan  to  the  rock. 

And  through  the  foliage  showed  his  head, 

With  narrow  leaves,  and  berries  red; 

What  pines  on  every  mountain  sprung. 

O'er  every  dell  what  birches  hung. 

In  every  breeze  what  aspens  shook. 

What  alders  shaded  every  brook ! 

"Here,  in  my  shade,"  methinks  he'd  say, 
"  The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay : 
The  wolf  I've  seen,  a  fiercer  game, 
(The  neighboring  dingle  bears  his  name,) 
With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl, 
And  stop  against  the  moon  to  howl ; 
The  mountain  boar,  on  battle  set. 
His  tusks  upon  my  stem  would  whet ; 


MARMION.  141 

While  doe  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good, 

Have  bounded  by  through  gay  greenwood, 

Then  oft,  from  Newark's  riven  tower, 

Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power: 

A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round, 

With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound; 

And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent, 

Guard  every  pass  with  cross-bow  bent; 

And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 

And  falc'ners  hold  the  ready  hawk; 

And  foresters,  in  greenwood  trim. 

Lead  to  the  leash  the  gaze-hounds  grim, 

Attentive,  as  the  brachet's  bay 

From  the  dark  covert  drove  the  prey, 

To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 

The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain. 

As  fast  the  gallant  grey-hounds  strain; 

Whistles  the  arrow  from  the  bow, 

Answers  the  harquebuss  below ; 

While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply. 

To  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunter's  cry. 

And  bugles  ringing  lightsomely."  — 


Of  such  proud  huntings,  many  tales 
Yet  linger  in  our  lonely  dales, 
Up  pathless  Ettricke,  and  on  Yarrow, 
Where  erst  the  OutlaAv  drew  his  arrow. 
But  not  more  blithe  that  sylvan  court. 
Than  we  have  been  at  humbler  sport ; 
Though  small  our  pomp,  and  mean  oar  game, 
Our  mirth,  dear  Marriott,  was  the  same. 
Remember'st  thou  my  grey-hounds  true? 
O'er  holt,  or  hill,  there  never  flew, 


142  MARMION. 

From  slip,  or  leash,  there  never  sprang, 
More  fleet  of  foot,  or  sure  of  fang. 
Nor  dull,  between  each  merry  chase, 
Passed  by  the  intermitted  space ; 
For  we  had  fair  resource  in  store. 
In  classic,  and  in  Gothic  lore : 
We  marked  each  memorable  scene, 

Lnd  held  poetic  talk  between ; 

for  hill,  nor  brook,  we  paced  along^ 
^ut  had  its  legend,  or  its  song.    ^^ 

l11  silent  now  —  for  now  are  still 
Thy  bowers,  untenanted  Bowhill! 
No  longer,  from  thy  mountains  dun, 
The  yeoman  hears  the  well-known  gun, 
And,  while  his  honest  heart  glows  warm, 
At  thought  of  his  paternal  farm, 
Round  to  his  mates  a  brimmer  fills, 
And  drinks,  "The  Chieftain  of  the  Hills!" 
No  fairy  forms,  in  Yarrow's  bowers. 
Trip  o'er  the  walks,  or  tend  the  flowers, 
Fair  as  the  elves  whom  Janet  saw. 
By  moonlight,  dance  on  Caterhaugh ; 
No  youthful  barons  left  to  grace, 
The  Forest-Sheriff''s  lonely  chase. 
And  ape,  in  manly  step  and  tone, 
The  majesty  of  Oberon ; 
And  she  is  gone,  whose  lovely  face 
Is  but  her  least  and  lowest  grace ; 
Though  if  to  Sylphid  Queen  'twere  given, 
To  show  our  earth  the  charms  of  heaven, 
She  could  not  glide  along  the  air, 
With  form  more  light,  or  face  more  fair. 
No  more  the  widow's  deafened  ear 
Grows  quick,  that  lady's  step  to  hear: 


MARMION.  143 

At  noontide  she  expects  her  not, 
Nor  busies  her  to  trim  the  cot; 
Pensive  she  turns  her  humming  wheel, 
Or  pensive  cooks  her  orphans'  meal; 
Yet  blesses,  ere  she  deals  their  bread. 
The  gentle  hand  by  which  they're  fed. 


From  Yair,  —  which  hills  so  closely  bind. 
Scarce  can  the  Tweed  his  passage  find, 
Though  much  he  fret,  and  chafe,  and  toil, 
Till  all  his  eddying  currents  boil, 
Her  long-descended  lord  is  gone, 
And  left  us  by  the  stream  alone. 
And  much  I  miss  those  sportive  boys, 

(Companions  of  my  mountain  joys, 
Just  at  the  age  'twixt  boy  and  youth,  \ 

When  thought  is  speech,  and  speech  is  truthX 
Close  to  my  side,  with  what  delight. 
They  pressed  to  hear  of  Wallace  wight, 
When,  pointing  to  his  airy  mound, 
I  called  his  ramparts  holy  ground! 
Kindled  their  brows  to  hear  me  speak; 
And  I  have  smiled,  to  feel  my  cheek, 
Despite  the  difierence  of  our  years, 
Return  again  the  glow  of  theirs. 
Ah,  happy  boys!  such  feelings  pure, 
They  will  not,  cannot  long  endure; 
Condemned  to  stem  the  world's  rude  tide. 
You  may  not  linger  by  the  side ; 
For  Fate  shall  thrust  you  from  the  shore. 
And  Passion  ply  the  sail  and  oar. 
Yet  cherish  the  remembrance  still, 
Of  the  lone  mountain,  and  the  rill ;        ^ 


144      *  HIARMION. 

For  trust,  dear  boys,  the  time  will  come, 
When  fiercer  transport  shall  be  dumb. 
And  you  will  think  right  frequently, 
But,  well  I  hope,  without  a  sigh, 
On  the  free  hours  that  we  have  spent 
Together,  on  the  brown  hill's  bent 

tWhea  musing  on  companions  gone, 
I  We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone, 
jf  Something,  my  friend,  we  yet  may  gain, 
(  There  is  a  pleasure  in  this  pain: 
I  It  soothes  the  love  of  lonely  rest, 
I  Deep  in  each  gentler  heart  impressed. 
1  'Tis  silent  amid  worldly  toils. 
And  stifled  soon  by  mental  broils; 
But,  in  a  bosom  thus  prepared, 
Its  still  small  voice''  is  often  heard, 
Whispering  a  mingled  sentiment, 
'Twixt  resignation  and  content 
/Oft  in  my  mind  such  thoughts  awake, 
J  By  lone  St  Mary's  silent  lake ; 
'  Thou  know'st  it  well,  —  nor  fen,  nor  sedge, 
Pollute  the  pure  lake's  ciystal  edge ; 
Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 
At  once  upon  the  level  brink ; 
And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 
Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land. 
Far  in  the  mirror,  bright  and  blue. 
Each  hill's  huge  outline  you  may  view; 
Shaggy  with  heath,  but  lonely  bare, 
Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  brake  is  there, 
Save  where,  of  land,  yon  slender  line 
Bears  thwart  the  lake  the  scattered  pine* 


MARMIOrr.  li 

Yet  even  this  nakedness  has  power, 

And  aids  the  feeling  of  the  hour: 

Nor  thicket,  dell,  nor  copse  you  spy, 

Where  living  thing  concealed  might  lie; 

Nor  point,  retiring,  hides  a  dell. 

Where  swain,  or  woodman  lone,  might  dwell; 

There's  nothing  left  to  fancy's  guess, 

You  see  that  all  is  loneliness : 

And  silence  aids — though  these  steep  hills 

Send  to  the  lake  a  thousand  rills ; 

In  summer  tide,  so  soft  they  weep, 

The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep; 

Your  horse's  hoof-tread  sounds  too' rude, 

So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Naught  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 
But  well  I  ween  the  dead  are  near; 
For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  low. 
Yet  still,  beneath  the  hallowed  soil, 
The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil, 
And,  dying,  bids  his  bones  be  laid, 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  prayed. 

If  age  had  tamed  the  passions'  strife, 

And  fate  had  cut  my  ties  to  life. 

Here,  have  I  thought,  'twere  sweet  to  dwell, 

And  rear  again  the  chaplain's  cell. 

Like  that  same  peaceful  hermitage. 

Where  Milton  longed  to  spend  his  age 

Twere  sweet  to  mark  the  setting  day. 

On  Bourhope's  lonely  top  decay; 

And,  as  it  faint  and  feeble  died. 

On  the  broad  lake,  and  mountain's  side, 

13 


146  MARMION. 

To  say,  "Thus  pleasures  fade  away; 
Youth,  talents,  beauty,  thus  decay. 
And  leave  us  dark,  forlorn,  and  gray ; "  — 
Then  gaze  on  Dryhope's  ruined  tower, 
And  think  on  Yarrow's  faded  Flower. 
And  when  that  mountain-sound  I  heard, 
'Which  bids  us  be  for  storm  prepared. 
The  distant  rustling  of  his  wings. 
As  up  his  force  the  Tempest  brings, 
'Twere  sweet,  ere  yet  his  terrors  rave, 
To  sit  upon  the  Wizard's  grave ; 
That  Wizard  Priest's,  whose  bones  are  thrust 
From  company  of  holy  dust; 
On  which  no  sunbeam  ever  shines  — 
(So  superstition's  creed  divines  — ) 
Thence  view  the  lake,  with  sullen  roar, 
Heave  her  broad  billows  to  the  shore; 
And  mark  the  wild  swans  mount  the  gale, 
Spread  wide  through  mist  their  snowy  sail, 
And  ever  stoop  again,  to  lave 
Their  bosoms  on  the  surging  wave : 
Then,  when  against  the  driving  hail, 
No  longer  might  my  plaid  avail, 
Back  to  my  lonely  home  retire, 
And  light  my  lamp,  and  trim  my  fire: 
There  ponder  o'er  some  mystic  lay, 
Till  the  wild  tale  had  all  its  sway, 
And,  in  the  bittern's  distant  shriek, 
I  heard  unearthly  voices  speak, 
And  thought  the  Wizard  Priest  was  come, 
To  claim  again  his  ancient  home! 
And  bade  my  busy  fancy  range, 
To  frame  him  fitting  shape  and  strange, 


i 

MARMION.  147  i 


Till  from  the  task  my  brow  I  cleared, 
And  smiled  to  think  that  I  had  feared. 


But  chief,  'twere  sweet  to  think  such  life, 
(Though  but  escape  from  fortune's  strife,) 
Something  most  matchless  good,  and  wise, 
A  great  and  grateful  sacrifice; 
/And  deem  each  hour,  to  musing  given, 
A  step  upon  the  road  to  heaven. 

Yet  him,  whose  heart  is  ill  at  ease, 

Such  painful  solitudes  displease : 

He  loves  to  drown  his  bosom's  jar 

Amid  the  elemental  war: 

And  my  black  Palmer's  choice  had  been 

Some  ruder  and  more  savage  scene. 

Like  that  which  frowns  round  dark  Lochskene, 

There  eagles  scream  from  isle  to  shore ; 

Down  all  the  rocks  the  torrents  roar; 

O'er  the  black  waves  incessant  driven. 

Dark  mists  infect  the  summer  heaven ; 

Through  the  rude  barriers  of  the  lake. 

Away  its  hurrying  waters  break. 

Faster  and  whiter  dash  and  curl. 

Till  down  yon  dark  abyss  they  hurl. 

Rises  the  fog-smoke  white  as  snow. 

Thunders  the  viewless  stream  below. 

Diving,  as  if  condemned  to  lave 

Some  demon's  subterranean  cave. 

Who,  prisoned  by  enchanter's  spell. 

Shakes  the  dark  rock  with  groan  and  yelL 

And  well  that  Palmer's  form  and  mein 

Had  suited  with  the  stormy  scene. 


148  MARMION. 

Just  on  the  edge,  straining  his  ken 
To  view  the  bottom  of  the  den, 
Where,  deep  deep  down,  and  far  within, 
Toils  with  the  rocks  the  roaring  linn; 
Then,  issuing  forth  one  foamy  wave, 
And  wheeling  round  the  Giant's  Grave, 
White  as  the  snowy  charger's  tail 
Drives  down  the  path  at  MofTatdale. 

Marriot,  thy  harp,  on  Isis  strung, 
To  many  a  Border  theme  has  rungj 
Then  list  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  know 
Of  this  mysterious  Man  of  Woe. 


CANTO  SECOND. 


THE   CONVENT. 


The  breeze,  which  swept  away  the  smoke, 

Round  Norham  Castle  rolled; 
When  all  the  loud  artillery  spoke, 
With  lightning-flash,  and  thunder-stroke, 

As  Marmion  left  the  Hold. 
It  curled  not  Tweed  alone,  that  breeze: 
For  far  upon  Northumbrian  seas, 


%0 

149 


It  freshly  blew,  and  strong, 
^here,  from  high  Whitby's  cloistered  pile, 
Bound  to  Saint  Cuthbert's  Holy  Isle, 

It  bore  a  bark  along. 
Upon  the  gale  she  stooped  her  side, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  swelling  tide, 

As  she  were  dancing  home ; 
The  merry  seamen  laughed,  to  see 
Their  gallant  ship  so  lustily 

Furrow  the  green  sea-foam. 
Much  joyed  they  in  their  honored  freight ; 
For,  on  the  deck,  in  chair  of  state, 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  placed, 
With  five  fair  nuns,  the  galley  graced. 


'Twas  sweet  to  see  these  holy  maids, 
Like  birds  escaped  to  greenwood  shades, 

Their  first  flight  from  the  cage, 
How  timid,  and  how  curious  too. 
For  all  to  them  was  strange  and  new, 
And  all  the  common  sights  they  view, 

Their  wonderment  engage. 
One  eyed  the  shrouds  and  swelling  sail, 

With  many  a  benedicite ; 
One  at  the  rippling  surge  grew  pale, 

And  would  for  terror  pray; 
Then  shrieked,  because  the  sea-dog,  nigh. 
His  round  black  head,  and  sparkling  eye, 

Reared  o'er  the  foaming  spray; 
And  one  would  still  adjust  her  veil, 
Disordered  by  the  summer  gale, 
Perchance  lest  some  more  worldly  eye 
Her  dedicated  charms  might  spy; 

13* 


150  MARMIOJy. 

Perchance,  because  such  action  graced 
Her  fair-turned  arm  and  slender  waist 
Light  was  each  simple  bosom  there, 
Save  two,  who  ill  might  pleasure  share, — 
The  Abbess,  and  the  Novice  Clare. 

The  Abbess  was  of  noble  blood. 
But  early  took  the  veil  and  hood. 
Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look. 
Or  knew  the  world  that  she  forsook. 
Fair  too  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 
As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 
For  her  a  timid  lover  sigh. 
Nor  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye ; 
Love,  to  her  ear,  was  but  a  name, 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame  ; 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall: 
The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  could  reach. 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach ; 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim. 
To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower. 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower; 
For  this,  with  carving  rare  and  quaint, 
She  decked  the  chapel  of  the  saint, 
And  gave  the  relic-shrine  of  cost. 
With  ivory  and  gems  embost. 
The  poor  her  convent's  bounty  blest. 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 

Black  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 
Reformed  on  Benedictine  school; 


MARMION.  151 

Her  cheek  was  pale,  her  form  was  spare ; 

Vigils,  and  penitence  austere. 

Had  early  quenched  the  light  of  youth, 

But  gentle  was  the  dame  in  sooth  ; 

Though  vain  of  her  religious  sway, 

She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey,  ^ 

Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell,  ^ 

And  the  nuns  loved  their  Abbess  well. 

Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame ; 

Summoned  to  Lindisfarn,  she  came. 

There,  with  Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  old. 

And  Tynemouth's  Prioress,  to  hold 

A  chapter  of  Saint  Benedict, 

For  inquisition  stern  and  strict, 

On  two  apostates  from  the  faith, 

And,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 

Naught  say  I  here  of  Sister  Clare, 
Save  this,  that  she  was  young  and  fair ; 
As  yet  a  novice  unprofessed. 
Lovely,  and  gentle,  but  distressed. 
She  was  betrothed  to  one  now  dead. 
Or  worse,  who  had  dishonored  fled. 
Her  kinsman  bade  her  give  her  hand 
To  one,  who  loved  her  for  her  land: 
Herself  almost  heart-broken  now. 
Was  bent  to  take  the  vestal  vow. 
And  shroud,  within  Saint  Hilda's  gloom, 
Her  blasted  hopes  and  withered  bloom. 

She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow, 
And  seemed  to  mark  the  Avaves  below ; 
Nay  seemed,  so  fixed  her  look  and  eye. 
To  count  them  as  they  glided  by. 


152  MARMION. 

She  saw  tliem  not  —  'twas  seeming  all  — 
For  other  scene  her  thoughts  recall, — 
A  sun-scorched  desert,  waste  and  bare, 
I  Nor  wave,  nor  breezes,  murmured  there ; 

There  saw  she,  where  some  careless  hand 
O'er  a  dead  corpse  had  heaped  the  sand, 
»     To  hide  it  till  the  jackalls  come. 
To  tear  it  from  the  scanty  tomb. — 
See  what  a  woful  look  was  given. 
As  she  raised  up  her  eyes  to  heaven! 

Lovely,  and  gentle,  and  distressed  — 
These  charms  might  tame  the  fiercest  breast: 
Harpers  have  sung,  and  poets  told, 
That  he,  in  fury  uncontrolled. 
The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood. 
Before  a  virgin  fair  and  good,  - 

I  Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 
I    But  passion  in  the  human  frame 
j    Oft  put  the  lion's  rage  to  shame: 
':    And  jealousy,  by  dark  intrigue. 
With  sordid  avarice  in  league. 
Had  practiced,  with  their  bowl  and  knife, 
Against  the  mourner's  harmless  life. 
This  crime  was  charged  'gainst  those  who  lay 
Prisoned  in  Cuthbert's' islet  gray. 

And  now  the  vessel  skirts  the  strand 
Of  mountainous  Northumberland; 
Towns,  towers,  and  halls,  successive  rise, 
And  catch  the  nuns'  delighted  eyes; 
Monk-Wearmouth  soon  behind  them  lay, 
And  Tynesmouth's  priory  and  bay; 


MARMION. 


153 


They  marked,  amid  her  trees,  the  hall 

Of  lofty  Seaton-Delaval ; 

They  saw  the  Blythe  and  Wansbeck  floods 

Rush  to  the  sea  through  sounding  woods; 

They  passed  the  tower  of  Widderington, 

Mother  of  many  a  valiant  son; 

At  Coquet-isle  their  beads  they  tell, 

To  the  good  Saint  who  oAvned  the  cell; 

Then  did  the  Alne  attention  claim, 

And  Warkworth,  proud  of  Percy's  name; 

And  next,  they  crossed  themselves,  to  hear 

The  whitening  breakers  sound  so  near, 

Where,  boiling  through  the  rocks,  they  roar 

On  Dunstanborough's  caverned  shore; 

Thy  tower,  proud  Bamborough,  marked  they  here, 

King  Ida's  castle,  huge  and  square. 

From  its  tall  rock  look  grimly  down, 

And  on  the  swelling  ocean  frown; 

Then  from  the  coast  they  bore  away, 

And  reached  the  Holy  Island's  bay. 


The  tide  did  now  its  flood-mark  gain. 
And  girdled  in  the  Saint's  domain: 
For  with  the  flow  and  ebb,  its  stile 
Varies  from  continent  to  isle ; 
Dry-shod,  o'er  sands,  twice  every  day, 
The  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  find  way; 
Twice  every  day,  the  waves  efface 
Of  staves  and  sandaled  feet  the  trace. 
As  to  the  port  the  galley  flew. 
Higher  and  higher  rose  to  view 
The  Castle,  with  its  battled  walls, 
The  ancient  monastery's  halls. 


154  MARMION. 

A  solemn,  huge,  and  dark-red  pile, 
Placed  on  the  margin  of  the  isle. 

In  Saxon  strength  that  Abbey  frowned, 
With  massive  arches  broad  and  round, 
That  rose  alternate,  row  and  row 
On  ponderous  columns,  short  and  low, 

Built  ere  the  art  was  known, 
By  pointed  aisle,  and  shafted  stalk, 
The  arcades  of  an  alloyed  walk. 
To  emulate  in  stone. 
On  the  deep  walls,  the  heathen  Dane 
Had  poured  his  impious  rage  in  vain ; 
And  needful  was  such  strength  to  these, 
Exposed  to  the  tempestuous  seas. 
Scourged  by  tlie  wind's  eternal  sway. 
Open  to  rovers  fierce  as  they. 
Which  could  twelve  hundred  years  withstand 
Winds,  waves,  and  northern  pirates'  hand. 
Not  but  that  portions  of  the  pile, 
Rebuilded  in  a  later  style. 
Showed  where  the  spoiler's  hand  had  been ; 
Not  but  the  wasting  sea-breeze  keen 
Had  worn  the  pillar's  carving  quaint. 
And  mouldered  in  his  niche  the  saint. 
And  rounded,  with  consuming  power, 
The  pointed  angles  of  each  tower; 
Yet  still  entire  the  Abbey  stood. 
Like  veteran,  worn,  but  unsubdued. 

Soon  as  they  neared  his  turrets  strong. 
The  maidens  raised  Saint  Hilda's  song, 
And  with  the  sea-wave  and  the  wind, 
Their  voices,  sweetly  shrill,  ccT^bined, 


155 


And  made  harmonious  close ; 

Then,  answering  from  the  sandy  shore, 

Half-drowned  amid  the  breakers'  roar, 
According  chorus  rose : 
Down  to  the  haven  of  the  Isle, 
The  monks  and  nuns  in  order  file, 

From  Cuthbert's  cloisters  grim ; 
Banner,  and  cross,  and  relics  there, 
To  meet  Saint  Hilda's  maids,  they  bare : 
And,  as  they  caught  the  sounds  on  air, 

They  echoed  back  the  hymn. 
The  islanders,  in  joyous  mood, 
Rushed  emulously  through  the  flood, 

To  hale  the  bark  to  land ; 
Conspicuous  by  her  veil  and  hood, 
Signing  the  cross,  the  Abbess  stood. 

And  blessed  them  with  her  hand. 


Suppose  we  now  the  welcome  said, 
Suppose  the  Convent  banquet  made ; 

All  through  the  holy  dome. 
Through  cloister,  aisle,  and  gallery. 
Wherever  vestal  maid  might  pry. 
Nor  risk  to  meet  unhallowed  eye. 

The  stranger  sisters  roam ; 
Till  fell  the  evening  damp  with  dew. 
And  the  sharp  sea-breeze  coldly  blew. 
For  there,  even  summer  night  is  chill. 
Then,  having  strayed  and  gazed  tlieir  fill, 

They  closed  around  the  fire : 
And  all,  in  turn,  essayed  to  paint 
The  rival  merits  of  their  saint, 

A  theme  that  ne'er  can  tire 


156  MARMION. 

A  holy  maid:  for,  be  it  known, 
That  their  saint's  honor  is  their  own. 


Then  Whitby's  nuns  exulting  told, 
How  to  their  house  three  barons  bold 

Must  menial  service  do; 
While  horns  blow  out  a  note  of  shame, 
And  monks  cry  "  Fye  upon  your  name ! 
In  wrath  for  loss  of  sylvan  game. 

Saint  Hilda's  priest  ye  slew." 
"This,  on  Ascension-day,  each  year, 
While  laboring  on  our  harbor-pier. 
Must  Herbert,  Bruce,  and  Percy  hear." 
They  told,  how  in  their  convent  cell 
A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell. 

The  lovely  Edelfled ; 
And  how,  of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 
Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone. 

When  holy  Hilda  prayed; 
Themselves,  within  their  holy  bound. 
Their  stony  folds  had  often  found. 
They  told,  how  sea-fowls'  pinions  fail. 
As  over  Whitby's  towers  they  sail. 
And,  sinking  down,  with  flutterings  faint, 
They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint 


Nor  did  Saint  Cuthbert's  daughters  fail, 

To  vie  with  these  in  holy  tale; 

His  body's  resting-place,  of  old. 

How  oft  their  patron  changed,  they  told; 

How,  when  the  rude  Dane  burned  their  pile 

The  monks  fled  forth  from  Holy  Isle; 


MARMION.  157 

O'er  northern  mountain,  marsh,  and  moor, 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Seven  years  Saint  Cuthbert's  corpse  they  bore. 

They  rested  them  in  fair  Melrose; 
But  though,  alive,  he  loved  it  well. 

Not  there  his  relics  might  repose ; 
For,  wondrous  tale  to  tell! 

In  his  stone-coffin  forth  he  rides, 

(A  ponderous  bark  for  river  tides,) 

Yet  light  as  gossamer  it  glides 
Downward  to  Tillraouth  cell. 
Nor  long  was  his  abiding  there, 
For  southward  did  the  saint  repair; 
Chester-le-Street,  and  Rippon,  saw 
His  holy  corse,  ere  Wardilaw 

Hailed  him  with  joy  and  fear ; 
And,  after  many  wanderings  past, 
He  chose  his  lordly  seat  at  last, 
Where  his  cathedral,  huge  and  vast, 

Looks  down  upon  the  Wear; 
There,  deep  in  Durham's  Gothic  shade, 
His  relics  are  in  secret  laid ; 

But  none  may  know  the  place. 
Save  of  his  holiest  servants  three, 
Deep  sworn  to  solemn  secrecy. 

Who  share  that  wondrous  grace. 

Who  may  his  miracles  declare ! 

Even  Scotland's  dauntless  king  and  heir, 

(Although  with  them  they  led 
Galwegians,  wild  as  ocean's  gale, 
And  Lodon's  knights  all  sheathed  in  mail, 
And  the  bold  men  of  Teviotdale,) 

Before  his  standard  fled. 

14 


158  MARMION. 

'Twas  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign, 
Edged  Alfred's  falchion  on  the  Dane, 
And  turned  the  conqueror  back  again. 
When,  witli  his  Norman  bowyer  band, 
He  came  to  waste  Northumberland. 

i  But  fain  Saint  Hilda's  nuns  would  learn, 

I  If,  on  a  rock  by  Lindisfarn, 

Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 
The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name: 
Such  tale  had  Whitby's  fishers  told. 
And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold, 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound ; 
A  deadened  clang  —  a  huge  dim  form, 
Seen  but,  and  heard,  when  gathering  storm 

And  night  were  closing  round. 
But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame. 
The  nuns  of  Lindisfarn  disclaim. 

While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go, 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  woe. 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath, 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 

It  was  more  dark  and  lone  that  vault, 
Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell ; 

Old  Colwulf  built  it,  for  his  fault, 
In  penitence  to  dwell. 
When  he,  for  cowl  and  beads,  laid  down 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 
This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight. 
Was  called  the  Vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light, 


MARMION.  159 

Was,  by  the  prelate  Saxhelm,  made 
A  place  of  burial,  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin. 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
'Twas  now  a  place  of  punishment; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent, 

As  reached  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  blessed  themselves,  and  said, 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoaned  their  torments  there. 


But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile. 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 

Some  vague  tradition  go. 
Few  only,  save  the  Abbot,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay;  and  still  more  few 
Were  those,  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  blindfold  when  transported  there. 
In  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung. 
From  the  rude  rock  the  side- walls  sprung; 
The  grave-stones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er, 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore. 
Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor; 
The  mildew  drops  fell  one  by  one, 
With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 
A  cresset  in  an  iron  chain. 
Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 
With  damp  and  darkness  seemed  to  strive, 
As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive ; 
And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 
The  awful  conclave  met  below. 


160  MARMION. 

There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 

Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three: 

All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 

The  statutes  of  whose  order  strict 

On  iron  table  lay; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone, 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown. 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray : 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's  there, 
Sate  for  a  space  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell. 

She  closely  drew  her  veil; 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess. 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress, 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  Prioress. 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale : 
And  he,  that  Ancient  Man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quenched  by  age's  night, 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone, 
Nor  ruth,  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern, — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style; 
For  sanctity  called,  through  the  isle, 

The  Saint  of  Lindisfarn. 

Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied: 
The  cloak  and  doublet,  loosely  tied. 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 
Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew ; 
And,  on  her  doublet  breast, 


MARMION.  161 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest 
But,  at  the  Prioress'  command, 
A  Monk  undid  the  silken  band. 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair. 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread, 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverly  they  know, 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  church  numbered  with  the  dead. 
For  broken  vows,  and  convent  fled. 


When  thus  her  face  was  given  to  view, 

(Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue, 

It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear, 

To  those  bright  ringlets  glistering  fair,) 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy ; 

And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale, 

That  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom,  warranted. 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks. 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  the  life,  was  there ; 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair. 

Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul. 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control, 
Because  his  conscience,  seared  and  foul. 
Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed; 

14* 


162  MARMION. 

One,  whose  brute-feeling  ne'er  aspires 
Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 
Such  tools  the  tempter  ever  needs, 
To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds; 
For  them  no  visioned  terrors  daunt, 
Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt; 
One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base. 
The  fear  of  death,  —  alone  finds  place. 
This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl, 
And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  howl, 
His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash. 
And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash ; 
While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near. 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 

Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek, 
Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak! 
For  there  were  seen,  in  that  dark  wall. 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall. 
Who  enters  at  such  griesly  door. 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more 
In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid. 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread : 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless  ; 
Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch. 
Showed  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch: 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 
The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  displayed, 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid. 

These  executioners  were  chose. 

As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes, 


MARMION. 

And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired, 
Into  the  cloister  had  retired; 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 
Strove,  by  deep  penance,  to  efface 

Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain ; 
For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will. 
Such  men  the  church  selected  still. 
As  either  joyed  in  doing  ill. 
Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain. 
If,  in  her  cause,  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By  strange  device  were  they  brought  there. 
They  knew  not  how,  and  knew  not  where. 

And  now  that  blind  old  Abbot  rose. 
To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom. 

On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose 
Alive,  within  the  tomb; 

But  stopped,  because  that  woful  maid, 

Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essayed. 

Twice  she  essayed,  and  twice  in  vain; 

Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain ; 

Naught  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 

From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip : 
'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still. 
You  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  rill  — 

'Twas  ocean's  swells  and  falls ; 
For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 
Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 
A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 

At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 
The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 


163 


164  MARMION. 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  color  dawned  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  fluttered  streak. 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak, 

By  Autumn's  stormy  sky; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length. 
Still  as  she  spoke,  she  gathered  strength, 

And  armed  herself  to  bear. 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy. 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 
"I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace; 
Well  know  I,  for  one  minute's  space 

Successless  might  I  sue: 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain. 
To  cleanse  my  sins,  be  penance  vain, 
I  Vain  are  your  masses  too. — 

I  listened  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil. 
For  three  long  years  I  bowed  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave. 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave.— 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair. 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir. 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore. 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more. — 
J     'Tis  an  old  tale,  and  often  told; 
/         But,  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree. 

Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 
I;  Of  maiden  true  betrayed  for  gold, 
*  That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me! 


MARMION. 

"The  king  approved  his  favorite's  aim; 
In  vain  a  rival  barred  his  claim, 

Whose  faith  with  Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge  —  and  on  they  came, 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight 
Their  oaths  are  said, 
Their  prayers  are  prayed. 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid. 

They  meet  in  mortal  shock; 
And  hark!  the  throng,  with  thundering  cry 
Shout,  'Marmion,  Marmion,  to  the  sky! 

De  Wilton  to  the  block ! ' 
Say  ye,  who  preach  heaven  shall  decide, 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride, 

Say,  was  heaven's  justice  here  ? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death, 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear. 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell. 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell."  — 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast. 
Paused,  gathered  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest 

"Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  staid; 
Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid, 
The  hated  match  to  shun. 

*  Ho  !  shifts  she  thus  ? '  King  Henry  cried, 

*  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride, 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.' 
One  way  remained  —  the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land: 
I  lingered  here,  and  rescue  planned 

For  Clara  and  for  me; 


165 


166  MARMION. 

This  catiff  Monk,  for  gold,  did  swear, 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair, 
And,  by  his  drugs,  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be. 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath. 
Whose  cowardice  hath  undone  us  both. 

"  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells. 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells, 
But  to  assure  my  soul,  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betrayed, 
This  packet,  to  the  king  conveyed. 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke. — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will, 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
*It  is  but  death  who  comes  at  last. 

"  Yet  dread  me,  from  my  living  tomb, 

Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome ! 

If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake. 

Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take. 

That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 

Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends. 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 

Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing; 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 

Burst  open  to  the  sea-winds'  sweep ; 

Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones, 

Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones. 


MARMION.  167 

And,  ignorant  of  priests'  craelty, 
Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be."  — 


Fixed  was  her  look,  and  stern  her  air; 

Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her  hair; 

The  locks,  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade, 

Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head; 

Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  more  high; 

Her  voice,  despair's  wild  energy 

Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 

Appalled  the  astonished  conclave  sate; 

With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 

Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form. 

And  listened  for  the  avenging  storm; 

The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread ; 

No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 

Till  thus  the  Abbot's  doom  was  given, 

Raising  his  sightless  bails  to  heaven:  — 

"  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease ; 

Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace!"  — 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb. 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three ;  • 

Sorrow  it  were,  and  shame,  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befell, 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 
Of  sin  and  misery. 


An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day; 
But,  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air, 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 


168 


And  many  a  stifled  groan: 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take, 
(Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make,) 
And  crossed  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on. 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone. 
They  seemed  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung", 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  'rung  : 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled. 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told ; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 

(  Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 

\  Listed  before,  aside,  behind ; 
Then  couched  him  down  beside  the  hind, 

\  And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


MARMIOJ!f.  169 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  THIRD. 

Like  April  morning  clouds,  that  pass, 

With  varying  shadow,  o'er  the  grass, 

And  imitate,  on  field  and  furrow. 

Life's  checkered  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow ; 

Like  streamlet  pf  the  mountain  north. 

Now  in  a  torrent  racing  forth, 

Now  winding  slow  its  silver  train. 

And  almost  slumbering  on  the  plain ; 

Like  breezes  of  the  autumn^  day. 

Whose  voice  inconstant  dies  away. 

And  ever  swells  again  as  fast. 

When  the  ear  deems  its  murmur  past ; 

Thus  various,  my  romantic  theme 

Flits,  winds,  or  sinks,  a  morning  dream. 

Yet  pleased,  our  eye  pursues  the  trace 

Of  Light  and  Shade's  inconstant  race ; 

Pleased,  views  the  rivulet  afsir, 

Weaving  its  maze  irregular; 

And  pleased,  we  listen  as  the  breeze 

Heaves  its  wild  sigh  through  Autumn  trees. 

Then  wild  as  cloud,  or  stream,  or  gale. 

Flow  on,  flow  unconfined,  my  tale. 


Need  I  to  thee,  dear  Erskine,  tell, 

I  love  the  license  all  too  well. 

In  sound  now  lowly,  and  now  strong, 

To  raise  the  desultory  song  ?  — 

Oft,  when  mid  such  capricious  chime, 

Some  transient  fit  of  loftier  rhyme, 

15 


170  MARMION. 

To  thy  kind  judgment  seemed  excuse 

For  many  an  error  of  the  muse ; 

Oft  hast  thou  said,  "If  still  misspent, 

Thine  hours  to  poetry  are  lent, 

Go,  and  to  tame  thy  wandering  course, 

Quaff  from  the  fountain  at  the  source ; 

Approach  those  masters,  o'er  whose  tomb 

Immortal  laurels  ever  bloom: 

Instructive  of  the  feebler  bard, 

Still  from  the  grave  their  voice  is  heard ; 

From  them,  and  from  the  paths  they  showed, 

Choose  honored  guide  and  practised  road; 

Nor  ramble  on»through  brake  and  maze. 

With  harpers  rude,  of  barbarous  days. 


"Or  deem'st  thou  not  our  later  time 
Yields  topic  meet  for  classic  rhyme  ? 
Hast  thou  no  elegaic  verse 
For  Brunswick's  venerable  hearse? 
What!  not  a  line,  a  tear,  a  sigh. 
When  valor  bleeds  for  liberty  ?  — 
Oh,  hero  of  that  glorious  time, 
When,  with  unrivalled  light  sublime, — 
Through  martial  Austria,  and  through  all 
The  might  of  Russia  and  the  Gaul, 
Though  banded  Europe  stood  her  foes  — 
The  star  of  Bradenburgh  arose. 
Thou  could'st  not  live  to  see  her  beam 
For  ever  quenched  in  Jena's  stream. 
Lamented  chief!  —  it  was  not  given. 
To  thee  to  change  the  doom  of  heaven, 
And  crush  that  dragon  in  his  birth, 
Predestined  scourge  of  guilty  earth. 


MARMION. 


171 


Lamented  chief!  —  not  thine  the  power, 

To  save  in  that  presumptuous  hour, 

When  Prussia  hurried  to  the  field, 

And  snatched  the  spear,  but  left  the  shield; 

Valor  and  skill  'twas  thine  to  try, 

And,  tried  in  vain,  'twas  thine  to  die. 

Ill  had  it  seemed  thy  silver  hair 

The  last,  the  bitterest  pang  to  share. 

For  princedoms  reft,  and  scutcheons  riven, 

And  birthrights  to  usurpers  given; 

Thy  land's,  thy  children's  wrongs  to  feel. 

And  witness  woes  thou  could'st  not  heal! 

On  thee  relenting  heaven  bestows 

For  honored  life  an  honored  close ; 

And  when  revolves,  in  time's  sure  change, 

The  hour  of  Germany's  revenge, 

When,  breathing  fury  for  her  sake, 

Some  new  Arminius  shall  awake. 

Her  champion,  ere  he  strike,  shall  come 

To  whet  his  sword  on  Brunswick's  tomb. 


"Or  of  the  Red-Cross  hero  teach. 

Dauntless  in  dungeon  as  on  breach; 

Alike  to  him  the  sea,  the  shore. 

The  brand,  the  bridle,  or  the  oar; 

Alike  to  him  the  war  that  calls 

Its  votaries  to  the  shattered  walls. 

Which  the  grim  Turk  besmeared  with  blood, 

Against  the  Invincible  made  good; 

Or  that,  whose  thundering  voice  could  wake 

The  silence  of  the  polar  lake, 

When  stubborn  Russ,  and  metaled  Swede, 

On  tlie  warped  wave  their  death-game  played; 


172  MARMION. 

Or  that,  where  vengeance  and  affright 
Howled  round  the  father  of  the  fight, 
Who  snatched  on  Alexandria's  sand 
The  conquerors  wreath  with  dying  hand. 

"Or,  if  to  touch  such  chord  be  thine, 
Restore  the  ancient  tragic  line, 
And  emulate  the  notes  that  rung 
From  the  wild  harp  which  silent  hung 
By  silver  Avon's  holy  shore. 
Till  twice  an  hundred  years  rolled  o'er; 
When  she,  the  bold  Enchantress,  came. 
With  fearless  hand  and  heart  on  flame! 
From  the  pale  willow  snatched  the  treasure, 
And  swept  it  with  a  kindred  measure. 
Till  Avon's  swans,  while  rung  the  grove 
With  Monfort's  hate  and  Basil's  love, 
Awakening  at  the  inspired  strain. 
Deemed  their  own  Shakspeare  lived  again."  — 

Thy  friendship  thus  thy  judgment  wronging, 
With  praises  not  to  me  belonging, 
In  task  more  meet  for  mightiest  powers, 
Would'st  thou  engage  my  thriftless  houra. 
But  say,  my  Erskine,  hast  thou  weighed 
That  secret  power  by  all  obeyed, 
Which  warps  not  less  the  passive  mind, 
Its  source  concealed  or  undefined; 
Whether  an  impulse,  that  has  birth 
Soon  as  the  infant  wakes  on  earth. 
One  with  our  feelings  and  our  powers, 
And  rather  part  of  us  than  ours; 
Or  whether  fitlier  termed  the  sway 
Of  habit,  formed  in  early  day? 


MARMION. 


173 


Howe'er  derived,  its  force  confessed 
Rules  with  despotic  sway  the  breast, 
And  drags  us  on  by  viewless  chain, 
While  taste  and  reason  plead  in  vain. 
Look  east,  and  ask  the  Belgian  why, 
Beneath  Batavia's  sultry  sky, 
He  seeks  not  eager  to  inhale 
The  freshness  of  the  mountain  gale. 
Content  to  rear  his  whitened  wall 
Beside  the  dank  and  dull  canal? 
He'll  say,  from  youth  he  loved  to  see 
The  white  sail  gliding  by  the  tree. 
Or  see  yon  weather-beaten  hind, 
Whose  sluggish  herds  before  him  wind, 
Whose  tattered  plaid  and  rugged  cheek 
His  northern  clime  and  kindred  speak; 
Through  England's  laughing  meads  he  goes, 
And  England's  wealth  around  him  flows: 
Ask  if  it  would  content  him  well, 
At  ease  in  these  gay  plains  to  dwell, 
Where  hedge-rows  spread  a  verdant  screen. 
And  spires  and  forests  intervene. 
And  the  neat  cottage  peeps  between? 
No !  not  for  these  will  he  exchange 
His  dark  Lochabar's  boundless  range, 
Nor  for  fair  Devon's  meads  forsake 
Bennevis  grey  and  Garry's  lake. 

Thus,  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 
Of  tales  that  charmed  me  yet  a  child, 
Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime 
Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time; 
And  feelings,  roused  in  life's  first  day, 
Glow  in  the  line,  and  prompt  the  lay. 

15* 


174  MARMION. 

Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower, 
Which  charmed  my  fancy's  wakening  hour. 
Though  no  broad  river  swept  along, 
To  claim,  perchance,  heroic  song; 
Though  sighed  no  groves  in  summer  gale, 
To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale ; 
Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 
Claimed  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed; 
Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given, 
By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 
It  was  a  barren  scene,  and  wild, 
Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled ; 
But  ever  and  anon  between 
Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green ; 
And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 
^^ecesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew, 
\  And  honeysuckle  loved  to  crawl 
jUp  the  low  crag  and  ruined  wall ; 
I  deemed  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 
The  sun  in  all  his  round  surveyed; 
And  still  I  thought  that  shattered  tower 
The  mightiest  work  of  human  power; 
And  marvelled,  as  the  aged  hind 
With  some  strange  tale  bewitched  my  mind, 
Of  forayers,  who,  with  headlong  force, 
Down  from  that  strength  had  spurred  their  horse, 
Their  southern  rapine  to  renew, 
Far  in  the  distant  Cheviots  blue. 
And,  home  returning,  filled  the  hall 
With  revel,  wassail-rout,  and  brawl. — 
Methought  that  still  with  tramp  and  clang 
The  gate-way's  broken  arches  rang; 
Methought  grim  features,  seamed  with  scars, 
Glared  through  the  windows'  rusty  bars. 


BIARMION,  175 

And  ever,  by  the  winter  hearth, 
Old  tales  I  heard  of  wo  or  mirth, 
Of  lovers'  sleights,  of  ladies'  charms. 
Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms ; 
Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old 
By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  the  bold; 
Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight, 
When,  pouring  from  their  Highland  height, 
The  Scottish  clans,  in  headlong  sway. 
Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away, 
While  stretched  at  length  upon  the  floor, 
Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er. 
Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid. 
The  mimic  ranks  of  war  displayed  ; 
And  onward  still  the  Scottish  Lion  bore, 
And  still  the  scattered  Southron  fled  before. 


Still,  with  vain  fondness,  could  I  trace 

Anew,  each  kind  familiar  face, 

That  brightened  at  our  evening  fire  ; 

From  the  thatched  mansion's  gray-haired  Sire, 

Wise  without  learning  plain  and  good, 

And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood; 

Whose  eye  in  age,  quick,  clear,  and  keen, 

Showed  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been; 

Whose  doom  discording  neighbors  sought, 

Content  with  equity  unbought; 

To  him  the  venerable  Priest, 

Our  frequent  and  familiar  guest. 

Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paint 

Alike  the  student  and  the  saint; 

Alas!  whose  speech  too  oft  I  broke 

With  gambol  rude  and  timeless  joke : 


176  MARMION. 

For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-willed  imp,  a  grandame's  child; 
But  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest, 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  carest 

From  me,  thus  nurtured,  dost  thou  ask 
The  classic  poet's  well-conned  task? 
Nay,  Erskine,  nay  — on  the  wild  hill 
Let  the  wild  heathbell  flourish  still; 
Cherish  the  tulip,  prune  the  vine, 
But  freely  let  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  leave  untrimmed  the  eglantine:^ 
Nay,  my  friend,  nay  —  since  oft  thy  praise 
Hath  given  fresh  vigor  to  my  lays, 
Since  oft  thy  judgment  could  refine 
My  flattered  thought,  or  cumbrous  line, 
Still  kind,  as  is  tliy  wont,  attend. 
And  in  the  minstrel  spare  the  friend. 
Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  streams,  as  galo, 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrained,  my  tale! 


MARMION.  177 


CANTO  THIRD. 


THE   HOSTEL,  OR   INN. 


The  livelong  day  Lord  Marmion  rode: 
The  mountain  path  the  Palmer  showed; 
By  glen  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill. 
They  might  not  choose  the  lowland  road, 
For  the  Merse  forayers  were  abroad, 
Who,  fired  with  hate  and  thirst  of  prey, 
Had  scarcely  failed  to  bar  the  way. 
Oft  on  the  trampling  band,  from  crown 
Of  some  tall  cliff,  the  deer  looked  down; 
On  wing  of  jet,  from  his  repose 
In  the  deep  heath,  the  black-cock  rose: 
Sprung  from  the  gorse  the  timid  roe. 
Nor  waited  for  the  bending  bow ; 
And  when  the  stony  path  began, 
By  which  the  naked  peak  they  wan. 
Up  flew  the  snowy  ptarmigan. 
The  noon  had  long  been  passed  before 
They  gained  the  height  of  Lammermoor 
Thence  winding  down  the  northern  way 
Before  them,  at  the  close  of  day. 
Old  Gifford's  towers  and  hamlet  lay. 


No  summons  calls  them  to  the  tower. 
To  spend  the  hospitable  hour. 
To  Scotland's  camp  the  Lord  was  gone: 
His  cautious  dame,  in  bower  alone. 


178  MARMION, 

Dreaded  her  castle  to  unclose, 
So  late,  to  unknown  friends  or  foes. 
On  through  the  hamlet  as  they  paced, 
Before  a  porch,  whose  front  was  graced 
With  bush  and  flagon  trimly  placed, 

Lord  Marmion  drew  his  rein: 
The  village  inn  seemed  large,  though  rude, 
Its  cheerful  fire  and  haughty  food 
Might  well  relieve  his  train. 
Down  from  their  seats  the  horsemen  sprung, 
With  jingling  spurs  the  court-yard  rung ; 
They  bind  their  horses  to  the  stall, 
For  forage,  food,  and  firing  call, 
And  various  clamor  fills  the  hall. 
Weighing  the  labor  with  the  cost. 
Toils  everywhere  the  bustling  host. 


Soon  by  the  chimney's  merry  blaze, 
Through  the  rude  hostel  might  you  gaze; 
Might  see,  where,  in  dark  nook  aloof, 
The  rafters  of  the  sooty  roof 

Bore  wealth  of  winter  cheer: 
Of  sea-fowl  dried,  and  solands  store, 
And  gammons  of  the  tusky  boar, 

And  savory  haunch  of  deer. 
The  chimney  arch  projected  wide ; 
Above,  around  it,  and  beside. 

Were  tools  for  housewives'  hand : 
Nor  wanted,  in  that  martial  day, 
The  implements  of  Scottish  fray, 

The  buckler,  lance,  and  brand. 
Beneath  its  shade,  the  place  of  state, 
On  oaken  settle  Marmion  sate, 


MARMIOIf.  179 

And  viewed  around  the  blazing  hearth, 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth, 
Whom  with  brown  ale,  in  jolly  tide, 
From  ancient  vessels  ranged  aside, 
Full  actively  their  host  supplied- 

Their's  was  the  glee  of  martial  breast, 
And  laughter  their's  at  little  jest ; 
And  oft  Lord  Marmion  deigned  to  aid. 
And  mingle  in  the  mirth  they  made, 
For  though,  with  men  of  high  degree. 
The  proudest  of  the  proud  was  he, 
Yet,  trained  in  camps,  he  knew  the  art 
To  win  the  soldier's  hardy  heart 
They  love  a  captain  to  obey. 
Boisterous  as  March,  yet  fresh  as  May ; 
With  open  hand,  and  brow  as  free. 
Lover  of  wine,  aud  minstrelsy ; 
Ever  the  first  to  scale  a  tower, 
As  venturous  in  a  lady's  bower:  — 
Such  buxom  chief  shall  lead  his  host 
From  India's  fires  to  Zerabla's  frost 


Resting  upon  his  pilgrim  staff, 

Right  opposite  the  Palmer  stood; 
His  thin  dark  visage  seen  but  half. 

Half  hidden  by  his  hood. 
Still  fixed  on  Marmion  was  his  look, 
Which  he,  who  ill  such  gaze  could  brook, 

Strove  by  a  frown  to  quell ; 
But  not  for  that,  though  more  than  once 
Full  met  their  stern  encountering  glance, 

The  Palmer's  visage  fell. 


180  MAEMION. 

By  fitg  less  frequent  fi-ora  the  crowd 
Was  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  loud ; 
For  still,  as  squire  and  archer  stared 
On  that  dark  face  and  matted  beard, 

Their  glee  and  game  declined. 
All  gazed  at  length  in  silence  drear, 
Unbroke,  save  when  in  comrade's  ear 
Some  yeoman,  wondering  in  his  fear. 

Thus  whispered  forth  his  mind:  — 
"  Saint  Mary !  saw'st  thou  e'er  such  sight ! 
How  pale  his  cheek,  his  eye  how  bright, 
Whene'er  the  fire-brand's  fickle  light 

Glances  beneath  his  cowl! 
Full  on  our  Lord  he  sets  his  eye ; 
For  his  best  palfrey,  would  not  I 

Endure  that  sullen  scowl."  — 

But  Marmion,  as  to  chase  the  awe 
Which  thus  had  quelled  their  hearts,  who  saw 
The  ever-varying  fire-light  show 
That  figure  stern  and  face  of  wo, 

Now  called  upon  a  squire :  — 
"  Fitz-Eustace,  know'st  thou  not  some  lay, 
To  speed  the  lingering  night  away  ? 

We  slumber  by  the  fire."  — 

"So  please  you,"  thus  the  youth  rejoined,'' 
"Our  choicest  minstrel's  left  behind. 
Ill  may  we  hope  to  please  your  ear. 
Accustomed  Constant's  strains  to  hear. 
The  harp  full  deftly  can  he  strike. 
And  wake   he  lover's  lute  alike; 
To  dear  Saint  Valentine,  no  thrush 
Sings  livelier  from  a  spring-tide  bush ; 


MARMIOJy.  m 

No  nightingale  her  love-lorn  tune 
More  sweetly  warbles  to  the  moon. 
Wo  to  the  cause,  whate'er  it  be, 
Detains  from  us  his  melody, 
Lavished  on  rocks,  and  billows  stern, 
Or  duller  monks  of  Lindisfarn. 
Now  must  1  venture  as  I  may. 
To  sing  his  favorite  roundelay."  — 

A  mellow  voice  Fitz-Eustace  had, 

The  air  he  chose  was  wild  and  sad; 

Such  have  I  heard,  in  Scottish  land, 

Rise  from  the  busy  harvest  band. 

When  falls  before  the  mountaineer. 

On  lowland  plains,  the  ripened  ear. 

Now  one  shrill  voice  the  notes  prolong, 

Now  a  wild  chorus  swells  the  song: 

Oft  have  I  listened,  and  stood  still. 

As  it  came  softened  up  the  hill. 

And  deemed  it  the  lament  of  men 

Who  languished  for  their  native  glen; 

And  thought,  how  sad  would  be  such  sound, 

On  Susquehana's  swampy  ground, 

Kentucky's  wood-encumbered  brake. 

Or  wild  Ontario's  boundless  lake, 

Where  heart-sick  exiles,  in  the  strain. 

Recalled  fair  Scotland's  hills  again! 

SONG. 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest, 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 

Parted  for  ever  ? 


182  MARMION. 

Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high, 
-     Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die, 
Under  the  willow. 


CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.     Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There,  through  the  summer  day, 

Cool  streams  are  laving ; 
There,  Avhile  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving; 
There,  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 
Never  again  to  wake, 

Never,  O  never. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.     Never,  O  never. 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver. 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin,  and  leave  her  ? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying. 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle, 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  «&c.    There  shall  he  be  lying. 


MARMION. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap, 

O'er  the  false-hearted; 
His  warm  blood  the  Avolf  shall  lap, 

Ere  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

By  his  grave  ever: 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it, — 

Never,  O  never. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.     Never,  O  never. 

It  ceased,  the  melancholy  sound; 
And  silence  sunk  on  all  around. 
The  air  was  sad ;  but  sadder  still 

It  fell  on  Marmion's  ear. 
And  plained  as  if  disgrace  and  ill, 

And  shameful  death,  were  near. 
He  drew  his  mantle  past  his  face, 

Between  it  and  the  band. 
And  rested  with  his  head  a  space, 
Reclining  on  his  hand. 
His  thoughts  I  scan  not;  but  I  ween, 
That,  could  their  import  have  been  seen, 
The  meanest  groom  in  all  the  hall, 
That  e'er"  tied  courser  to  a  stall. 
Would  scarce  have  wished  to  be  their  prey, 
For  Lutterward  and  Fontenaye. 

High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs,  Remorse ! 
Fear  for  their  scourge,  mean  villains  have,   , 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave ;        ;,  .   j 


183 


184 


Yet  fatal  strength  they  boast  to  steel 
Their  minds  to  bear  the  wounds  they  feel; 
Even  while  they  writhe  beneath  the  smart 
Of  civil  conflict  in  the  heart. 
For  soon  Lord  Marmion  raised  his  head, 
And,  smiling,  to  Fitz-Eustace  said:*— 
"Is  it  not  strange,  that,  as  ye  sung. 
Seemed  in  mine  ear  a  death-peal  rung, 
Such  as  in  nunneries  they  toll 
For  some  departing  sister's  soul? 

Say,  what  may  this  portend  ? " 
Then  first  the  Palmer  silence  broke, 
(The  livelong  day  he  had  not  spoke,) 

"  The  death  of  a  dear  friend." 


Marmion,  whose  steady  heart  and  eye 
Ne'er  changed  in  worst  extremity ; 
Marmion,  whose  soul  could  scantly  brook, . 
Even  from  his  king,  a  haughty  look ; 
Whose  accent  of  command  controlled. 
In  camps  the  boldest  of  the  bold  — 
Thought,  look,  and  utterance,  failed  him  now, 
Fallen  was  his  glance,  and  flushed  his  brow; 

For  either  in  the  tone. 
Or  something  in  the  Palmer's  look, 
So  full  upon  his  conscience  strook. 

That  answer  he  found  none. 
Thus  oft  it  haps,  that  when  within 
They  shrink  at  sense  of  secret  sin, 

A  feather  daunts  the  brave : 
A  fool's  wild  speech  confounds  the  wise, 
And  proudest  princes  veil  their  eyes 

Before  their  meanest  slave. 


MARMION.  1^ 

Well  might  he  falter !  —  by  his  aid         ,^ 

Was  Constance  Beverly  betrayed ; 

Not  that  he  augured  of  the  doom, 

Which  on  the  living  closed  the  tomb, 

But  tired  to  hear  the  desperate  maid 

Threaten  by  turns,  beseech,  upbraid; 

And  wroth,  because,  in  wild  despair, 

She  practiced  on  the  life  of  Clare  ; 

Its  fugitive  the  church  he  gave, 

Though  not  a  victim,  but  a  slave ; 

And  deemed  restraint  in  convent  strange, 

Would  hide  her  wrongs,  and  her  revenge  ; 

Himself,  proud  Henry's  favorite  peer, 

Held  Romish  thunders  idle  fear, 

Secure  his  pardon  he  might  hold, 

For  some  slight  mulct  of  penance-gold.  • 

Thus  judging,  he  gave  secret  way. 

When  the  stern  priests  surprised  their  prey; 

His  train  but  deemed  the  favorite  page 

Was  left  behind,  to  spare  his  age  ; 

Or  other  if  they  deemed,  none  dared 

To  mutter  what  he  thought  and  heard : 

Wo  to  the  vassal,  who  durst  pry 

Into  Lord  Marmion's  privacy ! 


His  conscience  slept  —  he  deemed  her  well. 
And  safe  secured  in  distant  cell ; 
But  wakened  by  her  favorite  lay, 
And  that  strange  Palmer's  boding  say, 
That  fell  so  ominous  and  drear, 
Full  on  the  object  of  his  fear. 
To  aid  remorse's  venomed  throes, 
Dark  tales  of  convent  vengeance  rose ; 

16* 


186  MARMION. 

A»d  Constance,  late  betrayed  and  scorned, 
All  lovely  on  his  soul  returned; 
Lovely  as  when,  at  treacherous  call, 
She  left  her  convent's  peaceful  wall. 
Crimsoned  with  shame,  with  terror  mute, 
Dreading  alike  escape,  pursuit. 
Till  love,  victorious  o'er  alarms, 
Hid  fears  and  blushes  in  his  arms. 


"  Alas ! "  he  thought,  "  how  changed  that  mien ! 
How  changed  these  timid  looks  have  been. 
Since  years  of  guilt,  and  of  disguise. 
Have  steeled  her  brow,  and  armed  her  eyes! 
No  more  of  virgin  terror  speaks 
The  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheeks; 
Fierce,  and  unfeminine,  are  there, 
Frenzy  for  joy,  for  grief  despair ; 
And  I  the  cause  —  for  whom  were  given 
Her  peace  on  earth,  her  hopes  in  heaven!  — 
Would,"  thought  he,  as  the  picture  grows, 
"I  on  its  stalk  had  left  the  rose! 
Oh  why  should  man's  success  remove 
The  very  charms  that  wake  his  love ! 
Her  convent's  peaceful  solitude 
Is  now  a  prison  harsh  and  rude ; 
And,  pent  within  the  narrow  cell. 
How  will  her  spirit  chafe  and  swell ! 
How  brook  the  stem  monastic  laws! 
The  penance  how  —  and  I  the  cause! 
Vigil  and  scourge  —  perchance  even  worse !  '* 
And  twice  he  rose  to  cry  "to  horse!" 
And  twice  his  sovereign's  mandate  came, 
Like  damp  upon  a  kindling  flame; 


MARMION. 


187 


And  twice  he  thought,  "Gave  I  not  charge 
She  should  be  safe,  though  not  at  large  ? 
They  durst  not,  for  their  island,  shred 
One  golden  ringlet  from  her  head."  — 


While  thus  in  Marmion's  bosom  strove 

Repentance  and  reviving  love, 

Like  whirlwinds,  whose  contending  sway 

I've  seen  Loch  Vennachar  obey. 

Their  Host  the  Palmer's  speech  had  heard, 

And  talkative,  took  up  the  word :  — 
"Ay,  reverend  Pilgrim,  you,  who  stray 
From  Scotland's  simple  land  away. 

To  visit  realms  afar. 
Full  often  learn  the  art  to  know, 
Of  future  weal  or  future  wo. 
By  word,  or  sign,  or  star; 
Yet  might  a  knight  his  fortune  hear, 
If,  knight-like,  he  despises  fear. 
Not  far  from  hence  ;  —  if  fathers  old 
Aright  our  hamlet  legend  told."  — 
These  broken  words  the  menials  move, 
(For  marvels  still  the  vulgar  love,) 
And,  Marmion  giving  license  cold. 
His  tale  the  host  thus  gladly  told. 


THE    HOST  S    TALE. 

"A  clerk  could  tell  what  years  have  flown 
Since  Alexander  filled  our  throne, 
(Third  monarch  of  that  warlike  name,) 
And  eke  the  time  when  here  he  came 


]  88  MARMION. 

To  seek  Sir  Hugo,  then  our  lord: 
A  braver  never  drew  a  sword; 
A  wiser  never,  at  the  hour 
Of  midnight  spoke  the  word  of  power; 
The  same,  whom  ancient  records  call 
The  founder  of  the  Goblin-Hall. 
I  would,  Sir  Knight,  your  longer  stay- 
Gave  you  that  cavern  to  survey. 
Of  lofty  roof,  and  ample  size. 
Beneath  the  castle  deep  it  lies: 
To  hew  the  living  rock  profound. 
The  floor  to  pave,  the  arch  to  round. 
There  never  toiled  a  mortal  arm. 
It  all  was  wrought  by  word  and  charm; 
And  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say. 
That  the  wild  clamor  and  affray 
Of  those  dread  artizans  of  hell. 
Who  labored  under  Hugo's  spell. 
Sounded  as  loud  as  ocean's  war. 
Among  the  caverns  of  Dunbar. 

"The  king  Lord  GifFord's  castle  sought, 
Deep-laboring  with  uncertain  thought: 
Even  then  he  mustered  all  his  host, 
To  meet  upon  the  western  coast; 
For  Norse  and  Danish  galleys  plied 
Their  oars  within  the  Firth  of  Clyde. 
There  floated  Haco's  banner  trim. 
Above  Norweyan  warriors  grim, 
Savage  of  heart,  and  large  of  limb; 
Threatening  both  continent  and  isle, 
Bute,  Arran,  Cunninghame,  and  Kyle. 
Lord  Giffbrd,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 
Heard  Alexander's  bugle  sound, 


MARMION. 


189 


And  tarried  not  his  garb  to  change, 

But,  in  his  wizard  habit  strange, 

Came  forth,  — a  quaint  and  fearful  sight! 

His  mantle  lined  with  fox-skins  white; 

His  high  and  wrinkled  forehead  bore 

A  pointed  cap,  such  as  of  yore 

Clerks  say  that  Pharaoh's  Magi  wore; 

His  shoes  were  marked  with  cross  and  spell; 

Upon  his  breast  a  pentacle ; 

His  zone,  of  virgin  parchment  thin. 

Or,  as  some  tell,  of  dead  men's  skin. 

Bore  many  a  planetary  sign. 

Combust,  and  retrograde,  and  trine; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  prepared, 

A  naked  sword  without  a  guard. 

"Dire  dealings  with  the  fiendish  race 
Had  marked  strange  lines  upon  his  face; 
Vigil  and  fast  had  worn  him  grim, 
His  eyesight  dazzled  seemed,  and  dim, 
As  one  unused  to  upper  day; 
Even  his  own  menials  with  dismay 
Beheld  Sir  Knight,  the  griesly  sire. 
In  this  unv/onted  wild  attire;  — 
Unwonted,  for  traditions  run. 
He  seldom  thus  beheld  the  sun. 
'I  know,'  he  said,  —  his  voice  was  hoarse, 
And  broken  seemed  its  hollow  force, — 
'I  know  the  cause,  although  untold. 
Why  the  king  seeks  his  vassal's  hold: 
Vainly  from  me  my  liege  would  know 
His  kingdom's  future  weal  or  wo: 
But  yet,  if  strong  his  arm  and  heart, 
His  courage  may  do  more  than  art. 


190 


" '  Of  middle  air  the  demons  proud, 

Who  ride  upon  the  racking  cloud, 

Can  read,  in  fixed  or  wandering  star. 

The  issue  of  events  afar; 

But  still  their  sullen  aid  withhold 

Save  when  by  mightier  force  controlled. 

Such  late  I  summoned  to  my  hall; 

And  though  so  potent  was  the  call, 

That  scarce  the  deepest  nook  of  hell 

I  deemed  a  refuge  from  the  spell, 

Yet,  obstinate  in  silence  still, 

The  haughty  demon  mocks  my  skill. 

But  thou,  —  who  little  know'st  thy  might, 

As  born  upon  that  blessed  night. 

When  yawning  graves,  and  dying  groan, 

Proclaimed  hell's  empire  overthrown, — 

With  untaught  valor  shalt  compel 

Response  denied  to  magic  spell.'  — 

'Gramercy,'  quoth  our  monarch  free, 

'Place  him  but  front  to  front  with  me, 

And,  by  this  good  and  honored  brand. 

The  gift  of  Coeur-de-Lion's  hand, 

Soothly  I  swear,  that,  tide  what  tide, 

The  demon  shall  a  buffet  bide.'  — 

His  bearing  bold  the  wizard  viewed, 

And  thus,  well  pleased,  his  speech  renewed.— 

'There  spoke  the  blood  of  Malcom! — mark: 

Forth  pacing  hence,  at  midnight  dark, 

The  rampart  seek,  whose  circling  crown 

Crests  the  ascent  of  yonder  down ; 

A  southern  entrance  shalt  thou  find ; 

There  halt,  and  there  thy  bugle  wind, 

And  trust  thine  elfin  foe  to  see. 

In  guise  of  thy  worst  enemy: 


MARMION. 


10] 


Couch  then  thy  lance,  and  spur  thy  steea  — 
Upon  him !  and  Saint  George  to  speed ! 
If  he  go  down,  thou  soon  shalt  know 
Whate'er  these  airy  sprites  can  show ;  — 
If  thy  heart  fail  thee  in  the  strife, 
I  am  no  warrant  for  thy  life.'  — 


"Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  did  ring, 

Alone,  and  armed,  rode  forth  the  king 

To  that  old  camp's  deserted  round :  — 

Sir  Knight,  you  well  might  mark  the  mound, 

Left  hand  the  town, — the  Pictish  race 

The  trench,  long  since,  in  blood  did  trace ; 

The  moor  around  is  brown  and  bare, 

The  space  within  is  green  and  fair. 

The  spot  our  village  children  know, 

For  there  the  earliest  wild-flowers  grow ; 

But  wo  betide  the  wandering  wight. 

That  treads  its  circle  in  the  night ! 

The  breadth  across,  a  bowshot  clear, 

Gives  ample  space  for  full  career; 

Opposed  to  the  four  points  of  heaven. 

By  four  deep  gaps  is  entrance  given. 

The  southermost  our  monarch  past. 

Halted,  and  blew  a  gallant  blast; 

And  on  the  north,  within  the  ring. 

Appeared  the  form  of  England's  king; 

Who  then  a  thousand  leagues  afar. 

In  Palestine  waged  holy  war: 

Yet  arms  like  England's  did  he  wield. 

Alike  the  leopards  in  the  shield. 

Alike  his  Syrian  courser's  frame, 

The  rider's  length  of  limb^the  same: 


192  MARMIOjy. 

Long  afterwards  did  Scotland  know, 
Fell  Edward  was  her  deadliest  foe. 

"The  vision  made  our  monarch  start, 
But  soon  he  manned  his  noble  heart. 
And  in  the  first  career  they  ran, 
The  Elfin  Knight  fell  horse  and  man; 
Yet  did  a  splinter  of  his  lance 
Through  Alexander's  visor  glance, 
And  razed  the  skin  —  a  puny  wound. 
The  king,  light  leaping  to  the  ground, 
With  naked  blade  his  phantom  foe 
Compelled  the  future  war  to  show. 
Of  Largs  he  saw  the  glorious  plain,* 
Where  still  gigantic  bones  remain, 

Memorial  of  the  Danish  war; 
Himself  he  saw,  amid  the  field. 
On  high  his  brandished  war-axe  wield. 
And  strike  proud  Haco  from  his  car, 
While,  all  around  the  shadowy  kings, 
Denmark's  grim  ravens  cowered  their  wings. 
'Tis  said,  that,  in  that  awful  night, 
Remoter  visions  met  his  sight. 
Fore-showing  future  conquests  far. 
When  our  sons'  sons  wage  northern  war; 
A  royal  city,  tower  and  spire, 
Reddened  the  midnight  sky  with  fire ; 
And  shouting  crews  her  navy  bore. 
Triumphant,  to  the  victor  shore. 
Such  signs  may  learned  clerks  explain, 
They  pass  the  wit  of  simple  swain. 

"The  joyful  king  turned  home  again, 
Headed  his  host,  and  quelled  the  Dane;     * 


MARMIOJy.  193 

But  yearly,  when  returned  the  night 
Of  his  strange  combat  with  the  sprite, 

His  wound  must  bleed  and  smart ; 
Lord  Gifford  then  would  gibing  say, 
*Bold  as  ye  were,  my  liege,  ye  pay 

The  penance  of  your  start' 
Long  since,  beneath  Dunfermline's  nave, 
King  Alexander  fills  his  grave. 

Our  Lady  give  him  rest! 
Yet  still  the  nightly  spear  and  shield 
The  elfin  warrior  doth  wield, 

Upon  the  brown  hill's  breast; 
And  many  a  knight  hath  proved  his  chance 
In  the  charmed  ring  to  break  a  lance. 

But  all  have  foully  sped; 
Save  two,  as  legends  tell,  and  they 
Were  Wallace  wight,  and  Gilbert  Hay.  — 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  said."  — 


The  quaighs  were  deep,  the  liquor  strong. 
And  on  the  tale  the  yeoman  throng 
Had  many  a  comment  sage  and  long, 

But  Marmion  gave  a  sign; 
And,  with  their  lord,  the  squires  retire; 
The  rest,  around  the  hostel  fire. 

Their  drowsy  limbs  recline ; 
For  pillow,  underneath  each  head. 
The  quiver  and  the  targe  were  laid; 
Deep  slumbering  on  the  hostel  floor. 
Oppressed  with  toil  and  ale,  they  snore; 
The  dying  flame,  in  fitful  change. 
Threw  on  the  group  its  shadows  strange. 

17 


194  MARMION. 

Apart,  and  nestling  in  the  hay 
Of  a  waste  loft,  Fitz-Eustace  lay ; 
Scarce,  by  the  pale  moonlight,  were  seen 
The  foldings  of  his  mantle  green: 
Lightly  he  dreamt,  as  youth  will  dream, 
Of  sport  by  thicket,  or  by  stream. 
Of  hawk  or  hound,  of  ring  or  glove, 
Or,  lighter  yet,  of  lady's  love. 


A  cautious  tread  his  slumber  broke. 
And,  close  beside  him,  when  he  woke. 
In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom. 
Stood  a  tall  form,  with  nodding  plume : 
But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew. 
His  master  Marmion's  voice  he  knew. 


—  "  Fitz-Eustace  !  rise,  —  I  cannot  rest ; 

Yon  churl's  wild  legend  haunts  my  breast. 

And  graver  thoughts  have  chafed  my  mood; 

The  air  must  cool  my  feverish  blood ; 

And  fain  would  I  ride  forth,  to  see 

The  scene  of  elfin  chivalry. 
I  Arise,  and  saddle. me  my  steed; 

i  And  gentle  Eustace,  take  good  heed 

I  Thou  dost  not  rouse  these  drowsy  slaves; 

I  I  would  not,  that  the  prating  knaves 

j  Had  cause  for  saying,  o'er  their  ale, 

i  That  I  could  credit  such  a  tale."  — 

I  Then  softly  down  the  steps  they  slid, 

i  Eustace  the  stable  door  undid, 

I  And,  darkling,  Marmion's  steed  arrayed, 

I  .  While,  whispering,  thus  the  Baron  said:  — 


MARMION.  KG 

"Did'st  never,  good  my  youth,  hear  tell, 

That  in  the  hour  when  I  was  born, 
St.  George,  who  graced  my  sire's  chapelle, 
Down  from  his  steed  of  marble  fell, 

A  weary  wight  forlorn  ? 
The  flattering  chaplains  all  agree, 
The  champion  left  his  steed  to  me. 
I  would,  the  omen's  truth  to  show, 
That  I  could  meet  this  Elfin  Foe ! 
Blithe  would  I  battle,  for  the  right 
To  ask  one  question  at  the  sprite :  — 
Vain  thought!  for  elves,  if  elves  there  be, 
An  empty  race,  by  fount  or  sea, 
To  dashing  waters  dance  and  sing. 
Or  round  the  green  oak  wheel  their  ring." — 
Thus  speaking,  he  his  steed  bestrode. 
And  from  the  hostel  slowly  rode. 

Fitz-Eustace  followed  him  abroad. 
And  marked  him  pace  the  village  road, 

And  listened  to  his  horse's  tramp, 
Till,  by  .the  lessening  sound, 

He  judged  that  of  the  Pictish  camp 
Lord  Marmion  sought  the  round. 
Wonder  it  seemed,  in  the  squire's  eyes, 
That  one,  so  wary  held,  and  wise,  — 
Of  whom  'twas  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel,  what  the  church  believed, — 

Should,  stirred  by  idle  tale, 
Ride  forth  in  silence  of  the  night. 
As  hoping  half  to  meet  a  sprite, 

Arrayed  in  plate  and  mail, 
For  little  did  Fitz-Eustace  know, 
That  passions,  in  contending  flow, 


196  MARMION. 

Unfix  the  strongest  mind; 
Wearied  from  doubt  to  doubt  to  flee, 
We  welcome  fond  credulity, 

Guide  confident,  though  blind. 

Little  for  this  Fitz-Eustace  cared, 
But,  patient,  waited  till  he  heard. 

At  distance,  pricked  to  utmost  speed, 

The  foot-tramp  of  a  flying  steed, 
Come  townward  rushing  on; 

First,  dead,  as  if  on  turf  it  trod, 
.  Then  clattering  on  the  village  road, — 

In  other  pace  than  forth  he  yode, 
Returned  Lord  Marmion. 
Down  hastily  he  sprung  from  selle. 
And,  in  his  haste,  well  nigh  he  fell; 
To  the  squire's  hand  the  rein  he  threw, 
And  spoke  no  word  as  he  withdrew; 
But  yet  the  moonlight  did  betray. 
The  falcon  crest  was  soiled  with  clay; 
And  plainly  might  Fitz-Eustace  see. 
By  stains  upon  the  charger's  knee. 
And  his  left  side,  that  on  the  moor 
He  had  not  kept  his  footing  sure. 
Long  musing  on  these  wondrous  signs, 
At  length  to  rest  the  squire  reclines. 
Broken  and  short;  for  still,  between. 
Would  dreams  of  terror  intervene: 
Eustace  did  ne'er  so  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  morning  lark. 


MARMION. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FOURTH. 

An  ancient  minstrel  sagely  said, 

"  Where  is  the  life  which  late  we  led  ? " 

That  motley  clown,  in  Arden  wood, 

Whom  humorous  Jaques  with  envy  viewed, 

Not  even  that  clown  could  amplify. 

On  this  trite  text,  so  long  as  I. 

Eleven  years  we  now  may  tell. 

Since  we  have  known  each  other  well ; 

Since,  riding  side  by  side,  our  hand 

First  drew  the  voluntary  brand ; 

And  sure,  through  many  a  varied  scene, 

Unkindness  never  came  between. 

Away  these  winged  years  have  flown. 

To  join  the  mass  of  ages  gone ; 

And  though  deep  marked,  like  all  below, 

With  checkered  shades  of  joy  and  wo ; 

Though  thou  o'er  realms  and  seas  hast  ranged, 

Marked  cities  lost,  and  empires  changed, 

While,  here,  at  home,  my  narrower  ken 

Somewhat  of  manners  saw,  and  men ; 

Though  varying  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears. 

Fevered  the  progress  of  these  years. 

Yet  now,  days,  weeks,  and  months,  but  seem 

The  recollection  of  a  dream, 

\So  still  we  glide  down  to  the  sea 

JOf  fathomless  eternity. 


Even  now,  it  scarcely  seems  a  day. 
Since  first  I  tuned  this  idle  lay, 

17* 


^ 


198  MARMION. 

A  task  so  often  thrown  aside, 
When  leisure  graver  cares  denied, 
That  now,  November's  weary  gale, 
Whose  voice  inspired  ray  opening  tale, 
That  same  November  gale  once  more 
Whirls  the  dry  leaves  on  Yarrow  shore; 
Then-  vexed  boughs  streaming  to  the  sky, 
Once  more  our  naked  birches  sigh; 
And  Blackhouse  heights,  and  Ettricke  Pen, 
Have  donned  their  wintry  shrouds  again; 
And  mountain  dark,  and  flooded  mead. 
Bid  us  forsake  the  banks  of  Tweed. 
Earlier  than  wont  along  the  sky. 
Mixed  with  the  rack,  the  snow-mists  fly: 
The  shepherd,  who,  in  summer  sun. 
Has  something  of  our  envy  won, 
As  thou  with  pencil,  I  with  pen. 
The  features  traced  of  hill  and  glen; 
He  who,  outstretched,  the  livelong  day, 
At  ease  among  the  heath-flowers  lay. 
Viewed  the  light  clouds  with  vacant  look, 
Or  slumbered  o'er  his  tattered  book. 
Or  idly  busied  him  to  guide 
His  angle  o'er  the  lessened  tide:  — 
At  midnight  now,  the  snowy  plain 
Finds  sterner  labor  for  the  swain. 


When  red  hath  set  the  beamless  sun. 
Through  heavy  vapors  dank  and  dun; 
When  the  tired  ploughman,  dry  and  warm, 
Hears,  half  asleep,  the  rising  storm 
Hurling  the  hail,  and  sleeted  rain, 
Against  the  casement's  tinkling  pane; 


MARMION.  199 

The  sounds  that  drive  wild  deer  and  fox, 
To  shelter  in  the  brake  and  rocks, 
Are  warnings  which  the  shepherd  ask 
To  dismal  and  to  dangerous  task. 
Oft  he  looks  forth,  an4  hopes,  in  vain, 
The  blast  may  sink  in  mellowing  rain; 
Till,  dark  above,  and  white  below, 
Decided  drives  the  flaky  snow. 
And  forth  the  hardy  swain  must  go. 
Long,  with  dejected  look  and  whine, 
To  leave  the  hearth  his  dogs  repine; 
Whistling,  and  cheering  them  to  aid, 
Around  his  back  he  wreathes  the  plaid: 
His  flock  he  gathers,  and  he  guides 
To  open  downs,  and  mountain  sides, 
Where,  fiercest  .though  the  tempest  blow, 
Least  deeply  lies  the  drift  below. 
The  blast,  that  whistles  o'er  the  fells, 
Stiffens  his  locks  to  icicles; 
Oft  he  looks  back,  while,  streaming  far, 
His  cottage  window  seems  a  star. 
Loses  its  feeble  gleam,  and  then 
Turns  patient  to  the  blast  again. 
And,  facing  to  the  tempest's  sweep. 
Drives  through  the  gloom  his  lagging  sheep : 
If  fails  his  heart,  if  his  limbs  fail, 
Benumbing  death  is  in  the  gale; 
His  paths,  his  landmarks,  all  unknown, 
Close  to  the  hut,  no  more  his  own. 
Close  to  the  aid  he  sought  in  vain. 
The  mom  may  find  the  stiffened  swain: 
His  widow  sees,  at  dawning  pale. 
His  orphans  raise  their  feeble  wail; 


200  MARMION. 

And,  close  beside  him,  in  the  snow, 
Poor  Yarrow,  partner  of  their  wo, 
Couches  upon  his  master's  breast, 
And  licks  his  cheek,  to  break  his  rest 

Who  envies  now  the  shepherd's  lot, 

His  healthy  fare,  his  rural  cot. 

His  summer  couch  by  greejiwood  tree, 

His  rustic  kirn's  loud  revelry. 

His  native  hill  notes,  tuned  on  high, 

To  Marion  of  the  blithesome  eye; 


f  His  crook,  his  scrip,  his  oaten  reed,   \ 
And  all  Arcadia's  golden  creed?         J 

Changes  not  so  with  us,  my  Skene, 
Of  human  life  the  varying  scene? 
Our  youthful  summer  oft  we  see 
Dance  by  on  wings  of  game  and  glee, 
While  the  dark  storm  reserves  its  rage, 
Against  the  winter  of  our  ager; 
As  he,  the  ancient  chief  of  Troy. 
His  manhood  spent  in  peace  and  joy ; 
But  Grecian  fires,  and  loud  alarms, 
Called  ancient  Priam  forth  to  arms. 
Then  happy  those,  —  since  each  must  drain 
His  share  of  pleasure,  share  of  pain, — 
Then  happy  those,  beloved  of  heaven, 
To  whom  the  mingled  cup  is  given; 
Whose  lenient  sorrows  find  relief. 
Whose  joys  are  chastened  by  their  grief. 
And  such  a  lot,  my  Skene,  was  thine, 
When  thou  of  late  wert  doomed  to  twine, - 
Just  when  thy  hridal  houi'  was  by,  — 
The  cypress  with  the  myrtle  tie ; 


MARMION.  201 

Just  on  thy  bride  her  Sire  had  smiled, 
And  blessed  the  union  of  his  child, 
When  love  must  change  its  joyous  cheer, 
And  wipe  affection's  filial  tear. 
Nor  did  the  actions,  next  his  end. 
Speak  more  the  father  than  the  friend: 
Scarce  had  lamented  Forbes  paid 
The  tribute  to  his  Minstrel's  shade; 
The  tale  of  friendship  scarce  was  told. 
Ere  the  narrator's  heart  was  cold. 
Far  may  we  search  before  we  find 
A  heart  so  manly  and  so  kind. 
But  not  around  his  honored  urn. 
Shall  friends  alone  and  kindred  mourn; 
The  thousand  eyes  his  care  had  dried. 
Pour  at  his  name  a  bitter  tide ; 
And  frequent  falls  the  grateful  dew. 
For  benefits  the  world  ne'er  knew. 
If  mortal  charity  dare  claim 
The  Almighty's  attributed  name, 
Inscribed  above  his  mouldering  clay, 
"The  widow's  shield,  the  orphan's  stay." 
Nor,  though  it  wake  thy  sorrow,  deem 
My  verse  intrudes  on  this  sad  theme; 
For  sacred  was  the  pen  that  wrote, 
"Thy  father's  friend  forget  thou  not:" 
And  grateful  title  may  I  plead. 
For  many  a  kindly  word  and  deed. 
To  bring  my  tribute  to  his  grave:  — 
'Tis  little  — but  'tis  all  I  have. 


To  thee,  perchance,  this  rambling  strain 
Recalls  our  summer  walks  again ; 


202  MARMIOJS. 

When  doing  naught,  —  and,  to  speak  true, 
Not  anxious  to  find  aught  to  do, — 
The  wild  unbounded  hills  we  ranged. 
While  oft  our  talk  its  topic  changed, 
And  desultory,  as  our  way, 
Ranged  unconfined  from  grave  to  gay. 
Even  when  it  flagged,  as  oft  will  chance, 
No  effort  made  to  break  its  trance. 
We  could  right  pleasantly  pursue 
Our  sports  in  social  silence  too. 
Thou  gravely  laboring  to  portray 
The  blighted  oak's  fantastic  spray ; 
I  spelling  o'er,  with  much  delight. 
The  legend  of  that  antique  knight, 
Tirante  by  name,  ycleped  the  White. 
At  cither's  feet  a  trusty  squire, 
Pandour  and  Camp,  with  eyes  of  fire. 
Jealous,  each  other's  motions  viewed, 
And  scarce  suppressed  their  ancient  feud. 
The  laverock  whistled  from  the  cloud ; 
The  stream  was  lively,  but  not  loud ; 
From  the  white-thorn  the  May-flower  shed 
Its  dewy  fragrance  round  our  head ; 
Not  Ariel  lived  more  merrily 
Under  the  blossomed  bough,  than  we. 

And  blithesome  nights,  too,  have  been  ours, 
When  Winter  stript  the  summer's  bowers; 
Careless  we  heard,  what  now  I  hear. 
The  wild  blast  sighing  deep  and  drear. 
When  fires  were  bright,  and  lamps  beamed  gay, 
And  ladies  tuned  the  lovely  lay; 
And  he  was  held  a  laggard  soul. 
Who  shunned  to  quaff  the  sparkling  bowL 


MARMION.  203 

Then  he,  whose  absence  we  deplore, 
Who  breathes  the  gales  of  Devon's  shore. 
The  longer  missed,  bewailed  the  more; 

And  thou,  and  I,  and  dear-loved  R , 

And  one  whose  name  I  may  not  say, — 

For  not  Mimosa's  tender  tree 

Shrinks  sopner  from  the  touch  than  he, — 

In  merry  chorus  well  combined. 

With  laughter  drown  the  whistling  wind. 

Mirth  was  within;  and  Care  without 

Might  gnaw  her  nails  to  hear  our  shout. 

Not  but  amid  the  buxom  scene 

Some  grave  discourse  might  intervene  — 

Of  the  good  horse  that  bore  him  best, 

His  shoulder,  hoof,  and  arching  crest: 

For,  like  mad  Tom's,  our  chiefest  care. 

Was  horse  to  ride,  and  weapon  wear. 

Such  nights  we've  had;  and,  though  the  game 

Of  manhood  be  more  sober  tame. 

And  though  the  field-day,  or  the  drill. 

Seem  less  important  now  —  yet  still 

Such  may  we  hope  to  share  again. 

The  sprightly  thought  inspires  my  strain; 

And  mark,  how  like  a  horseman  true. 

Lord  Marmion's  march  I  thus  renew. 


^KM 


CANTO  FOURTH. 


THE  CAMP. 


Eustace,  1  said,  did  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  merry  lark. 
The  lark  sung  shrill,  the  cock  he  crew, 
And  loudly  Marmion's  bugle  blew. 
And,  with  their  light  and  lively  call, 
Brought  groom  and  yeoman  to  the  stall. 

Whistling  they  came,  and  free  of  heart; 
But  soon  their  mood  was  changed : 

Complaint  was  heard  on  every  part. 
Of  something  disarranged. 
Some  clamored  loud  for  armor  lost ; 
Some  brawled  and  wrangled  with  the  host; 
"By  Beckett's  bones,"  cried  one,  "I  fear 
That  some  false  Scot  has  stolen  my  spear !  *  — 
Young  Blount,  Lord  Marmion's  second  squire. 
Found  his  steed  wet  with  sweat  and  mire ; 
Although  the  rated  horse-boy  sware, 
Last  night  he  dressed  him  sleek  and  fair. 
While  chafed  the  impatient  squire  like  thunder, 
Old  Hubert  shouts,  in  fear  and  wonder, — 
"Help,  gentle  Blount!  help,  comrades  all! 
Bevis  lies  dying  in  his  stall : 
To  Marmion  who  the  plight  dare  tell,    • 
Of  the  good  steed  he  loves  so  well?"  — 
Gaping  for  fear  and  ruth,  they  saw 
The  charger  panting  on  his  straw ; 
Till  one,  who  would  seem  wisest,  cried,  — 
"What  else  but  evil  could  betide. 
With  that  cursed  Palmer  for  our  guide? 


MARMION. 


205 


Better  we  had  through  mire  and  bush 
Been  lanthorn-led  by  Friar  Rush." 

Fitz-Eustace,  who  the  cause  but  guessed, 

Nor  wholly  understood, 
His  comrades'  clamorous  plaints  suppressed; 

He  knew  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
Him,  ere  he  issued  forth,  he  sought, 
And  found  deep  plunged  in  gloomy  thought, 

And  did  his  tale  display 
Simply,  as  if  he  knew  of  naught 

To  cause  such  disarray. 
Lord  Marmion  gave  attention  cold, 
Nor  marvelled  at  the  wonders  told, — 
Passed  them  as  accidents  of  course, 
And  bade  his  clarions  sound  to  horse. 

Young  Henry  Blount,  meanwhile,  the  cost 
Had  reckoned  with  their  Scottish  host; 
And,  as  the  charge  he  cast  and  paid, 
"111  thou  deserv'st  thy  hire,"  he  said; 

"Dost  see,  thou  knave,  my  horse's  plight? 

Fairies  have  ridden  him  all  the  night, 
And  left  him  in  a  foam! 
I  trust,  that  soon  a  conjuring  band. 
With  English  cross  and  blazing  brand, 
Shall  drive  the  devils  from  this  land. 

To  their  infernal  home: 
For  in  this  haunted  den,  I  trow. 
All  night  they  trampled  to  and  fro."  — 
The  laughing  host  looked  on  the  hire, — 
"Gramercy,  gentle  southern  squire, 
And  if  thou  com'st  among  the  rest. 
With  Scottish  broadsword  to  be  blest. 


206  MARMION. 

Sharp  be  the  brand,  and  sure  the  blow, 
And  short  the  pang  to  undergo."  — 
Here  stayed  their  talk,  —  for  Marmion 
Gave  now  the  signal  to  set  on. 
The  Palmer  showing  forth  the  way, 
They  journeyed  all  the  morning  day. 


The  greensward  way  was  smooth  and  good, 

Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's  wood ; 

A  forest  glade,  which,  varying  still. 

Here  gave  a  view  of  dale  and  hill ; 

There  narrower  closed,  till  over  head 

A  vaulted  screen  the  branches  made, 

"A  pleasant  path,"  Fitz-Eustace  said; 

"Such  as  where  errant  knights  might  see 

Adventures  of  high  chivalry; 

Might  meet  some  damsel  flying  fast, 

With  hair  unbound,  and  looks  aghast; 

And  smooth  and  level  course  were  here, 

In  her  defence  to  break  a  spear. 

Here,  too,  are  twilight  nooks  and  dells ; 

And  oft,  in  such,  the  story  tells. 

The  damsel  kind,  from  danger  freed. 

Did  grateful  pay  her  champion's  meed."  — 

He  spoke  to  cheer  Lord  Marmion's  mind; 

Perchance  to  show  his  lore  designed ; 
For  Eustace  much  had  pored 

Upon  a  huge  romantic  tome. 

In  the  hall-window  of  his  home, 

Imprinted  at  the  antique  dome 
Of  Caxton  or  De  Worde. 

Therefore  he  spoke,  —  but  spoke  in  vain. 

For  Marmion  answered  naught  again. 


MARMION. 

Now  Budden  distant  trumpets  shrill. 
In  notes  prolonged  by  wood  and  hill, 

Were  heard  to  echo  far; 
Each  ready  archer  grasped  his  bow, 
But  by  the  flourish  soon  they  know 

They  breathed  no  point  of  war. 
Yet  cautious,  as  in  foeman's  land, 
Lord  Marmion's  order  speeds  the  band, 

Some  open  ground  to  gain; 
And  scarce  a  furlong  had  they  rode. 
When  thinner  trees,  receding,  showed 

A  little  woodland  plain. 
Just  in  that  advantageous  glade, 
The  halting  troop  a  line  had  made, 
As  forth  from  the  opposing  shade 

Issued  a  gallant  train. 

First  came  the  trumpets,  at  whose  clang 
So  late  the  forest  echoes  rang; 
On  prancing  steeds  they  forward  pressed, 
Witli  scarlet  mantle,  azure  vest; 
Each  at  his  trump  a  banner  wore, 
Which  Scotland's  royal  scutcheon  bore; 
Heralds  and  pursuivants,  by  name 
Bute,  Islay,  Marchmount,  Rothsay,  came. 
In  painted  tabards,  proudly  showing 
Gules,  Argent,  Or,  and  Azure  glowing. 
Attendant  on  a  King-at-arms, 
Whose  hand  the  armorial  truncheon  held, 
That  feudal  strife  had  often  quelled. 
When  wildest  its  alarms. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  age; 
In  aspect  manly,  grave,  and  sage, 


207 


208  MARMION. 

As  on  king's  errand  come; 
But  in  the  glances  of  his  eye, 
A  penetratmg,  keen,  and  sly 

Expression  found  its  home ; 
The  flash  of  that  satiric  rage. 
Which,  bursting  on  the  early  stage, 
Branded  the  vices  of  the  age. 

And  broke  the  keys  of  Rome. 
On  milk-white  palfrey  forth  he  paced; 
His  cap  of  maintenance  was  graced 

With  the  proud  heron-plume. 
From  his  steed's  shoulder,  loin,  and  breast, 

Silk  housings  swept  the  ground, 
With  Scotlands  arms,  device,  and  crest. 

Embroidered  round  and  round. 
The  double  tressure  might  you  see, 

First  by  Achaius  borne, 
The  thistle,  and  the  fleur-de-lis. 

And  gallant  unicorn. 
So  bright  the  king's  armorial  coat, 
That  scarce  the  dazzled  eye  could  note, 
In  living  colors,  blazoned  brave, 
The  Lion,  which  his  title  gave. 
A  train,  which  well  beseemed  his  state, 
But  all  unarmed,  around  him  wait 

Still  is  thy  name  in  high  account. 
And  still  thy  verse  has  charms. 

Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  Lion  King-at-arms ! 

Down  from  his  horse  did  Marmion  spring. 
Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King; 
For  well  the  stately  Baron  knew. 
To  him  such  courtesy  was  due, 


MARMION.  209 

Whom  royal  James  himself  had  crowned, 

And  on  his  temples  placed  the  round 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  diadem ; 

And  wet  his  brow  with  hallowed  wine, 

And  on  his  finger  given  to  shine 
The  emblematic  gem. 
Their  mutual  greetings  duly  made, 
The  Lion  thus  his  message  said:  — 
"  Though  Scotland's  King  hath  deeply  swore, 
Ne'er  to  knit  faith  with  Henry  more, 
And  strictlj:  hath  forbid  resort 
From  England  to  his  royal  court; 
Yet,  for  he  knows  Lord  Marmion's  name. 
And  honors  much  his  warlike  fame. 
My  liege  hath  deemed  it  shame,  and  lack 
Of  courtesy,  to  turn  him  back; 
And,  by  his  order,  I,  your  guide, 
Must  lodging  fit  and  fair  provide. 
Till  finds  King  James  meet  time  to  see 
The  flower  of  English  chivalry."  — 


Though  inly  chafed  at  this  delay. 
Lord  Marmion  bears  it  as  he  may. 
The  Palmer,  his  mysterious  guide. 
Beholding  thus  his  place  supplied. 

Sought  to  take  leave  in  vain : 
Strict  was  the  Lion-King's  command. 
That  none,  who  rode  in  Marmion's  band. 

Should  sever  from  the  train: 
"  England  has  here  enow  of  spies 
In  Lady  Heron's  witching  eyes;" 
To  Marchmount  thus,  apart,  he  said. 
But  fair  pretext  to  Marmion  made. 

/       18* 


210  MARMION. 

The  right-hand  path  they  now  decline, 
And  trace  against  the  stream  the  Tyne. 

At  length  up  that  wild  dale  they  wind, 

Where  Crichtoun-Castle  crowns  the  bank; 

For  there  the  Lion's  care  assigned 
A  lodging  meet  for  Marmion's  rank. 
That  Castle  rises  on  the  steep 

Of  the  green  vale  of  Tyne; 
And  far  beneath,  where  slow  they  creep 
From  pool  to  eddy,  dark  and  deep, 
Where  alders  moist,  and  willows  weep, 

You  hear  her  streams  repine. 
The  towers  in  different  ages  rose ; 
Their  various  architecture  shows 

The  builders'  various  hands; 
A  mighty  mass,  that  could  oppose, 
When  deadliest  hatred  fired  its  foes, 

The  vengeful  Douglas  bands. 

Crichtoun!  though  now  thy  miry  court 
But  pens  the  lazy  steer  and  sheep. 
Thy  turrets  rude,  and  tottered  Keep, 

Have  been  the  minstrel's  loved  resort 

Ofl  have  I  traced  within  thy  fort. 
Of  mouldering  shields  the  mystic  sense, 
Scutcheons  of  honor,  or  pretence. 

Quartered  in  old  armorial  sort. 
Remains  of  rude  magnificence: 

Nor  wholly  yet  hath  time  defaced 
Thy  lordly  gallery  fair; 

Nor  yet  the  stony  cord  unbraced. 

Whose  twisted  knots,  with  roses  laced. 
Adorned  thy  ruined  stair. 


MARMION.  211 

Still  rises  unimpaired,  below. 
The  court-yard's  graceful  portico ; 
Above  its  cornice,  row  and  row 
Of  fair  hewn  facets  richly  show 

Their  pointed  diamond  form, 
Though  there  but  houseless  cattle  go 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm. 
And,  shuddering,  still  may  we  explore. 

Where  oft  whilome  were  captives  pent, 
The  darkness  of  thy  Massy  More ; 

Or,  from  thy  grass-grown  battlement. 
May  trace,  in  undulating  line. 
The  sluggish  mazes  of  the  Tyne 


Another  aspect  Crichtoun  showed. 

As  through  its  portal  Marmion  rode ; 

But  yet  'twas  melancholy  state 

Received  him  at  the  outer  gate ; 

For  none  were  in  the  castle  then. 

But  women,  boys,  or  aged  men. 

With  eyes  scarce  dried,  the  sorrowing  dame, 

To  welcome  noble  Marmion,  came ; 

Her  son,  a  stripling  twelve  years  old. 

Proffered  the  Baron's  rein  to  hold; 

For  each  man,  that  could  draw  a  sword, 

Had  marched  that  morning  with  their  lord. 

Earl  Adam  Hepburn,  —  he  who  died 

On  Flodden,  by  his  sovereign's  side. 

Long  may  his  Lady  look  in  vain ! 

She  ne'er  shall  see  his  gallant  train 

Come  sweeping  back  through  Crichtoun-Dean. 

'Twas  a  brave  race,  before  the  name 

Of  hated  Bothwell  stained  their  fame. 


912 


MARMTON. 

And  here  two  days  did  Marmion  rest, 
With  every  rite  that  honor  claims, 

Attended  as  the  king's  own  guest,  — 
Such  the  command  of  royal  James ; 
WHb  marshalled  then  his  land's  array, 
Upon  the  Borough  moor  that  lay. 
Perchance  he  would  not  foeman's  eye 
Upon  his  gathering  host  should  pry, 
Till  full  prepared  was  every  band 
To  march  against  the  English  land. 
Here  while  they  dwelt,  did  Lindesay's  wit 
Oft  cheer  the  Baron's  moodier  fit; 
And,  in  his  turn,  he  knew  to  prize 
Lord  Marmion's  powerful  mind,  and  wise, — 
Trained  in  the  lore  of  Rome,  and  Greece, 
And  policies  of  war  and  peace. 


It  chanced,  as  fell  the  second  night. 

That  on  the  battlements  they  walked, 
And,  by  the  slowly  fading  light. 

Of  varying  topics  talked ; 
And,  unaware,  the  Herald-bard 
Said  Marmion  might  his  toil  have  spared. 

In  travelling  so  far; 
For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven 
In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given 

Against  the  English  war ; 
And,  closer  questioned,  thus  he  told 
"A  tale,  which  chronicles  of  old 
In  Scottish  story  have  enrolled: 


MARMION.  213 


SIR   DAVID   LINDESAY's    TALE. 

"Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair, 
Built  for  the  royal  dwelling, 

In  Scotland,  far  beyond  compare 
Linlithgow  is  excelling ; 
And  in  its  park,  in  jovial  June, 
How  sweet  the  merry  linnet's  tune, 

How  blithe  the  blackbird's  lay ! 
The  wild  buck  bells  from  ferny  brake. 
The  coot  dives  merry  on  the  lake. 
The  saddest  heart  might  pleasure  take 

To  see  all  nature  gay. 
But  June  is  to  our  Sovereign  dear 
The  heaviest  month  in  all  the  year: 
Too  well  his  cause  of  grief  you  know, 
June  saw  his  father's  overthrew. 
Wo  to  the  traitor's,  who  could  bring 
The  princely  boy  against  his  King! 
Still  in  his  conscience  burns  the  sting. 
In  offices  as  strict  as  Lent, 
King  James's  June  is  ever  spent 


"When  last  this  ruthful  month  was  come, 
And  in  Linlithgow's  holy  dome 

The  King,  as  wont,  was  praying; 
While  for  his  royal  father's  soul 
The  chaunter's  sung,  the  bells  did  toll. 

The  Bishop  mass  was  saying  — 
For  now  the  year  brought  round  again 
The  day  the  luckless  king  was  slain  — 


9i4  MARMION. 

In  Katharine's  aisle  the  monarch  knelt, 

With  sackcloth-shirt,  and  iron  belt. 
And  eyes  with  sorrow  streaming; 

Around  him,  in  their  stalls  of  state. 

The  Thistle's  Knight-Companions  sate, 
Their  banners  o'er  them  beaming. 

I  too  was  there,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 

Bedeafened  with  the  jangling  knell, 
.    Was  watching  where  the  sunbeams  fell, 
Through  the  stained  casement  gleaming; 

But,  while  I  marked  what  next  befell, 
It  seemed  as  I  were  dreaming. 
Stepped  from  the  crowd  a  ghostly  wight. 
In  azure  gown,  with  cincture  white ; 
His  forehead  bald,  his  head  was  bare, 
Down  hung  at  length  his  yellow  hair. — 
Now,  mock  me  not,  when,  good  my  Lord, 
I  pledge  to  you  my  knightly  word, 
That,  when  I  saw  his  placid  grace. 
His  simple  majesty  of  face. 
His  solemn  bearing,  and  his  pace 

So  stately  gliding  on, — 
Seemed  to  me  ne'er  did  limner  paint 
So  just  an  image  of  the  Saint, 
Who  propped  the  Virgin  in  her  faint, — 

The  loved  Apostle  John. 


"He  stepped  before  tlie  Monarch's  chair, 
And  stood  with  rustic  plainness  there, 

And  little  reverence  made; 
Nor  head,  nor  body,  bowed  nor  bent. 
But  on  the  desk  his  arm  he  leant, 

And  words  like  these  he  said. 


3IARMI0N.  215 

In  a  low  voice,  —  but  never  tone 
So  thrilled  through  vein,  and  nerve,  and  bone . 
'My  mother  sent  me  from  afar, 
Sir  King,  to  warn  thee  not  to  war, — 

Wo  waits  on  thine  array; 
If  war  thou  wilt,  of  woman  fair. 
Her  witching  wiles  and  wanton  snare, 
James  Stuart,  doubly  warned,  beware ; 

God  keep  thee  as  he  may!'  — 
The  wondering  Monarch  seemed  to  seek 

For  answer,  and  found  none ; 
And  when  he  raised  his  head  to  speak. 

The  monitor  was  gone. 
The  Marshal  and  myself  had  cast 
To  stop  him  as  he  outward  past; 
But,  lighter  than  the  whirlwind's  blast, 

He  vanished  from  our  eyes, 
Like  sunbeam  on  the  billow  cast, 

That  glances  but,  and  dies."  — 

While  Lindesay  told  this  marvel  strange, 

The  twilight  was  so  pale, 
He  marked  not  Marmion's  color  change, 

While  listening  to  the  tale: 
But,  after  a  suspended  pause, 
The  Baron  spoke:  — "Of  Nature's  laws 

So  strong  I  hold  the  force, 
That  never  superhuman  cause 

Could  e'er  control  their  course ; 
And,  three  days  since,  had  judged  your  aim 
Was  but  to  make  your  guest  your  game. 
But  I  have  seen,  since  past  the  Tweed, 
What  much  has  changed  my  skeptic  creed, 


216  MARMION. 

An3  made  me  credit  aught."  —  He  staid, 
And  seemed  to  wish  his  words  unsaid; 
But,  by  that  strong  emotion  pressed, 
Which  prompts  us  to  unload  our  breast, 

Even  when  discovery's  pain, 
To  Lindesay  did  at  length  unfold 
The  tale  his  village  host  had  told, 
At  Gilford,  to  his  train. 
Naught  of  the  Palmer  says  he  there. 
And  naught  of  Constance,  or  of  Clare : 
The  thoughts,  which  broke  his  sleep,  he  seems 
To  mention  but  as  feverish  dreams. 


to  rest  I  spread 
My  burning  limbs,  and  couched  my  head. 

Fantastic  thoughts  returned; 
And,  by  their  wild  dominion  led, 

My  heart  within  me  burned. 
So  sore  was  the  delirious  goad, 
I  took  my  steed,  and  forth  I  rode ; 
And,  as  the  moon  shone  bright  and  cold. 
Soon  reached  the  camp  upon  the  wold. 
The  southern  entrance  I  passed  through, 
And  halted,  and  my  bugle  blew. 
Methought  an  answer  met  my  ear, — 
Yet  was  the  blast  so  low  and  drear. 
So  hollow,  and  so  faintly  blown. 
It  might  be  echo  of  my  own. 


"  Thus  judging,  for  a  little  space 
I  listened,  ere  I  left  the  place ; 


MARMION.  SI7 

But  scarce  could  trust  my  eyes, 
Nor  yet  can  think  they  served  me  true, 
When  sudden  in  the  ring  I  view, 
In  form  distinct  of  shape  and  hue, 

A  mounted  champion  rise. — 
I've  fought,  Lord-Lion,  many  a  day, 
In  single  fight,  and  mixed  afiiray. 
And  ever,  I  myself  may  say, 

Have  borne  me  as  a  knight; 
But  when  this  unexpected  foe 
Seemed  starting  from  the  gulf  below,  — 
I  care  not  though  the  truth  I  show, — 

I  trembled  with  affright ; 
And  as  I  placed  in  rest  my  spear, 
My  hand  so  shook  for  very  fear, 

I  scarce  could  couch  it  right 


"  Why  need  my  tongue  the  issue  tell  ? 
We  ran  our  course,  —  my  charger  fell :  — 
What  could  he  'gainst  the  shock  of  hell?  — 

I  rolled  upon  the  plain. 
High  o'er  my  head,  with  threatening  hand, 
The  spectre  shook  his  naked  brand, — 

Yet  did  the  worst  remain; 
My  dazzled  eyes  I  upward  cast, — 
Not  opening  hell  itself  could  blast 

Their  sight,  like  what  I  saw ! 
Full  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook, — 
A  face  could  never  be  mistook! 
I  knew  the  stern  vindictive  look. 

And  held  my  breath  for  awe. 
I  saw  the  face  of  one  who,  fled 
To  foreign  climes,  has  long  been  dead.  ^ — 

19 


218 


MARMIOjy. 

I  well  believe  the  last; 
For  ne'er   from  visor  raised,  did  stare 
A  human  warrior,  with  a  glare 

So  grimly  and  so  ghast. 
Thrice  o'er  my  head  he  shook  the  blade: 
But  when  to  good  St.  George  I  prayed, 
(The  first  time  e'er  I  asked  his  aid,) 

He  plunged  it  in  the  sheath; 
And,  on  his  courser  mounting  light, 
He  seemed  to  vanish  from  my  sight: 
The  moonbeam  drooped,  and  deepest  night 

Sunk  down  upon  the  heath. — 
'Twere  long4o  tell  what  cause  I  have 

To  know  his  face,  that  met  me  there, 
Called  by  his  hatred  from  the  grave, 
'  To  cumber  upper  air: 
Dead  or  alive,  good  cause  had  he 
To  be  my  mortal  enemy."  — 

Marvelled  Sir  David  of  the  Mount; 
Then,  learned  in  story,  'gan  recount 

Such  chance  had  happed  of  old. 
When  once,  near  Norham,  there  did  fight 
A  spectre  fell,  of  fiendish  might, 
In  likeness  of  a  Scottish  knight, 

With  Brian  Bulmer  bold. 
And  trained  him  nigh  to  disallow 
The  aid  of  his  baptismal  vow. 

"And  such  a  phantom,  too,  'tis  said. 

With  Highland  broadsword,  targe,  and  plaid, 
And  fingers  red  with  gore. 
Is  seen  in  Rothiemurcus  glade. 
Or  where  the  sable  pine-trees  shade 
Dark  Tomantoul  and  Achnaslaid, 


MARMION. 


Dromouchty  or  Glenmore. 
And  yet,  whate'er  sucH  legends  say, 
Of  warlike  demon,  ghost,  or  fay, 

On  mountain,  moor,  or  plain, 
Spotless  in  faith,  in  bosom  bold, 
True  son  of  chivalry  should  hold 

These  midnight  terrors  vain ; 
For  seldom  have  such  spirits  power 
To  harm,  save  in  the  evil  hour. 
When  guilt  we  meditate  within, 
Or  harbor  unrepented  sin."  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned  him  half  aside, 
And  twice  to  clear  his  voice  he  tried, 

Then  pressed  Sir  David's  hand, — 
But  naught,  at  length,  in  answer  said, 
And  here  their  farther  converse  staid, 

Each  ordering  that  his  band 
Should  bowne  them  with  the  rising  day, 
To  Scotland's  camp  to  take  their  way, — 

Such  was  the  Kingr's  command.  « 


Early  they  took  Dun-Edin's  road. 
And  could  I  trace  each  step  they  trode; 
Hill,  brook,  nor  dell,  nor  rock,  nor  stone 
Lies  on  the  path  to  me  unknown. 
Much  might  it  boast  of  storied  lore; 
But,  passing  such  digression  o'er. 
Suffice  it,  that  their  route  was  laid 
Across  the  furzy  hills  of  Braid. 
They  passed  the  glen  and  scanty  rill. 
And  climbed  the  opposing  bank,  until 
They  gained  the  top  of  Blackford  HilL 


220  MARMION. 

Blackford !  on  whose  uncultured  breast, 

Among  the  broo^,  and  thorn,  and  whin, 
A  truant-boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 
Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest. 

While  rose,  on  breezes  thin, 
The  murmur  of  the  city  crowd, 
And,  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud, 

Saint  Giles's  mingling  din. 
Now,  from  the  summit  to  the  plain, 
Waves  all  the  hill  with  yellow  grain: 

And  o'er  the  landscape  as  I  look, 
Maught  do  I  see  unchanged  remain. 

Save  the  rude  cliffs  and  chiming  brook. 
To  me  they  make  a  heavy  moan. 
Of  early  friendships  past  and  gone. 

But  different  far  the  change  has  been. 

Since  Marmion,  from  the  croAvn 
Of  Blackford,  saw  that  martial  scene 

Upon  the  bent  so  brown : 
Thousand  pavilions,  white  as  snow, 
Spread  all  the  Borough  moor  below, 

Upland,  and  dale,  and  down:  — 
A  thousand  did  I  say?  I  ween. 
Thousands  on  thousands  there  was  seen, 
That  checkered  all  the  heath  between 

The  streamlet  and  the  town; 
In  crossing  ranks  extending  far, 
Forming  a  camp  irregular; 
Oft  giving  way,  where  still  there  stood 
Some  relic  of  the  old  oak  wood. 
That,  darkly  huge,  did  intervene, 
And  tamed  the  glaring  white  with  green: 


MARMION.  221 

In  these  extended  lines  there  lay 
A  martial  kingdom's  vast  array. 

For  from  Hebudes,  dark  with  rain, 
To  eastern  Lodon's  fertile  plain, 
And  from  the  southern  Redswire  edge, 
To  farthest  Rosse's  rocky  ledge; 
From  west  to  east,  from  south  to  north, 
Scotland  sent  al]  her  warriors  forth. 
Marmion  might  hear  the  mingled  hum 
Of  myriads  up  the  mountain  come ; 
The  horses'  tramp,  and  tingling  clank, 
Where  chiefs  reviewed  their  vassal  rank, 

And  charger's  shrilling  neigh ; 
And  see  the  shifting  lines  advance. 
While  frequent  flashed,  from  shield  and  lance, 

The  sun's  reflected  ray. 

Thin  curling  in  the  morning  air, 

The  wreaths  of  failing  smoke  declare, 

To  embers  now  the  brands  decayed 

Where  the  night-watch  their  fires  had  made. 

They  saw,  slow  rolling  on  the  plain. 

Full  many  a  baggage-cart  and  wain, 

And  dire  artillery's  clumsy  car, 

By  sluggish  oxen  tugged  to  war ; 

And  there  were  Borthwick's  Sisters  Seven, 

And  culverins  which  France  had  given. 

Ill-omened  gift!  the  guns  remain 

The  conqueror's  spoil  on  Flodden  plain. 

Nor  marked  they  less,  where  in  the  air 
A  thousand  streamers  flaunted  fair; 

19*  .  ^ 


232 


Various  in  shape,  device,  and  hue, 
Green,  sanguine,  purple,  red,  and  blue. 
Broad,  narrow,  swallow-tailed,  and  square, 
Scroll,  pennon,  pensil,  bandrol,  there. 

O'er  the  pavilions  flew. 
Highest,  and  midmost,  was  descried 
The  royal  banner,  floating  wide; 
The  staflT,  a  pine-tree  strong  and  straight. 
Pitched  deeply  in  a  massive  stone. 
Which  still  in  meimory  is  shown. 
Yet  bent  beneath  the  standard's  weight. 
Whene'er  the  western  wind  unrolled. 
With  toil,  the  huge  and  cumbrous  fold. 
And  gave  to  view  the  dazzling  field. 
Where,  in  proud  Scotland's  royal  shield. 
The  ruddy  Lion  ramped  in  gold. 

Lord  Marmion  viewed  the  landscape  bright,— 
He  viewed  it  with  a  chief's  delight, — 
Until  within  him  burned  his  heart, 
And  lightning  from  his  eye  did  part. 

As  on  the  battle-day; 
Such  glance  did  falcon  never  dart. 

When  stooping  on  his  prey. 
"  Oh !  well,  Lord-Lion,  hast  thou  said, 
Thy  king  from  warfare  to  dissuade 

Were  but  a  vain  essay; 
For,  by  St.  George,  were  that  host  mine, 
Not  power  infernal,  nor  divine, 
Should  once  to  peace  my  soul  incline, 
Till  I  had  dimmed  their  armor's  shine 

In  glorious  battle  fray  !  "  — 
Answered  the  bard,  of  milder  mood: 
"Fair  is  the  sight,  —  and  yet  'twere  good, 


MARMIOX.  933 

That  kings  would  think  withal, 
When  peace  and  wealth  their  land  have  blessed, 
'Tis  better  to  sit  still  at  rest, 

Than  rise,  perchance  to  fall."  — 

Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  surveyed. 

When  sated  with  the  martial  show 

That  peopled  all  the  plain  below, 

The  wondering  eye  could  o'er  it  go, 

And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 
With  gloomy  splendor  red; 

For  on  the  smoke-wreaths,  huge  and  slow, 
,  That  round  her  sable  tuiTets  flow, 
The  morning  beams  Avere  shed, 

And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud. 

Like  that  which  streaks  a  thunder-cloud. 
Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height. 
Where  the  huge  castle  holds  its  state 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down, 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky. 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high. 

Mine  own  romantic  town ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze. 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays, 
And  as  each  heathy  top  they  kissed,  ) 
It  gleamed  a  purple  amethyst.  I 

Yonder  the  shores  Of  Fife  you  saw; 

Here  Preston-Bay,  and  Berwick-Law; 
And,  broad  between  them  rolled. 

The  gallant  Firth  the  eye  might  note. 

Whose  islands  on  its  bosom  float, 
Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 


224  MARMION. 

Fitz-Eustace'  heart  felt  closely  pent; 
As  if  to  give  his  rapture  vent, 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent, 

And  raised  his  bridle-hand, 
And,  making  demi-volte  in  air. 
Cried,  "  Where's  the  coward  that  would  not  dare 

To  fight  for  such  a  land ! " 
The  Lindesay  smiled  his  joy  to  see ; 
Nor  Marmion's  frown  repressed  his  glee. 


Thus  while  they  looked,  a  flourish  proud, 
Where  mingled  trump,  and  clarion  loud. 

And  fife,  and  kettle-drum, 
And  sackbut  deep,  and  psaltery 
And  war-pipe  with  discordant  cry, 
And  cymbal  clattering  to  the  sky, 
Making  wild  music  bold  and  high, 

Did  up  the  mountain  come ; 
The  whilst  the  bells,  with  distant  chime, 
Merrily  tolled  the  hour  of  prime, 

And  thus  the  Lindesay  spoke :  — 
"  Thus  clamor  still  the  war-notes  when 
The  King  to  mass  his  way  has  ta'en, 
Or  to  St  Catherine's  of  Sienne, 

Or  chapel  of  Saint  ilocque. 
To  you  they  speak  of  martial  fame; 
But  me  remind  of  peaceful  game, 

When  blither  was  their  cheer. 
Thrilling  in  Falkland-woods  the  air. 
In  signal  none  his  steed  should  spare. 
But  strive  which  foremost  might  repair 

To  the  downfall  of  the  deer. 


MARMION. 


225 


«Nor  less,"  he  said,  — "when  looking  forth, 
I  view  yon  Empress  of  the  Nortii 

Sit  on  her  hilly  throne ; 
Her  palace's  imperial  bowers. 
Her  castle,  proof  to  hostile  powers, 
Her  stately  halls,  and  holy  towers  — 

Nor  less,"  he  said,  "I  moan, 
To  think  what  wo  mischance  may  bring, 
And  how  these  merry  bells  may  ring 
The  death-dirge  of  our  gallant  King; 

Or,  with  their  larum,  call 
The  burghers  forth  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Gainst  southern  sack  and  fires  to  guard 

Dun-Edin's  leaguered  wall.  — 
But  not,  for  my  'presaging  thought, 
Dream  conquest  sure,  or  cheaply  bought! 

Lord  Marmion,  I  say  nay;  — 
God  is  the  guider  of  the  field. 
He  breaks  the  champion's  spear  and  shield, — 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  say. 
When  joins  yon  host  in  deadly  stowre, 
That  England's  dames  must  weep  in  bower, 

Her  monks  tlie  death-mass  sing; 
For  never  saw'st  thou  such  a  power 

Led  on  by  such  a  King."  — 
And  now,  down  winding  td  the  plain, 
The  barriers  of  the  camp  they  gain,* 

And  there  they  made  a  stay. — 
There  stays  the  Minstrel,  till  he  fling 
His  hand  o'er  every  Border  string. 
And  fit  his  harp  the  pomp  to  sing. 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  Court  and  King, 

In  the  succeeding  lay.  ♦ 


I^i6  MARMION. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  FIFTH. 

When  dark  December  glooms  the  day, 

And  takes  our  autumn  joys  away ; 

When  short  and  scant  the  sunbeam  throws, 

Upon  the  weary  waste  of  snows, 

A  cold  and  profitless  regard, 

Like  patron  on  a  needy  bard; 

When  sylvan  occupation's  doiie, 

And  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun, 

And  hang  in  idle  trophy,  near. 

The  game-pouch,  fishing-rod  and  spear; 

When  wiry  terrier,  rough  and  grim, 

And  greyhound  with  his  length  of  limb, 

And  pointer,  now  employed  no  more, 

Cumber  our  parlor's  narrow  floor; 

When  in  his  stall  the  impatient  steed 

Is  long  condemned  to  rest  and  feed ; 

When  from  our  snow-encircled  home. 

Scarce  cares  the  hardiest  step  to  roam. 

Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 

The  needful  water  from  the  spring; 

When  wrinkled  news-page,  thrice  conned  o'er, 

Beguiles  the  dreary  hour  no  more. 

And  darkling  politician,  crossed. 

Inveighs  against  the  lingering  post, 

And  answering  house-wife  sore  complains 

Of  carriers'  snow-impeded  wains : 

When  such  the  coiintry  cheer,  I  come. 

Well  pleased,  to  seek  our  city  home ; 

For  converse,  and  for  books,  to  change 

The  Forest's  melancholy  range. 


W 


MARMION. 


227 


And  welcome,  with  renewed  delight, 
The  busy  day,  and  social  night. 


Not  here  need  my  desponding  rhyme 
Lament  the  ravages  of  time, 
As  erst  by  Newark's  riven  towers. 
And  Ettricke  stripped  of  forest  bowers. 
True,  —  Caledonia's  Q,ueen  is  changed, 
Since  on  her  dusky  summit  ranged, 
Within  its  steepy  limits  pent. 
By  bulwark,  line,  and  battlement, 
And  flanking  towers,  and  laky  flood, 
Guarded  and  garrisoned  she  ^tood. 
Denying  entrance  or  resort. 
Save  at  each  tall  embattled  port; 
Above  whose  arch,  suspended,  hung 
Portcullis  spiked  with  iron  prong. 
That  long  is  gone,  —  but  not  so  long, 
Since,  early  closed,  and  opening  late. 
Jealous  revolved  the  studded  gate: 
Whose  task  from  eve  to  morning  tide 
A  wicket  churlishly  supplied. 
Stern  then,  and  steel-girt  was  thy  brow^ 
Dun-Edin !  O,  how  altered  now, 
When  safe  amid  thy  mountain  court 
Thou  sitt'st,  like  Empress  at  her  sport, 
And  liberal,  unconfined,  and  free, 
Flinging  thy  white  arms  to  the  sea. 
For  thy  dark  cloud,  with  umbered  lower, 
That  hung  o'er  cliffj  and  lake,  and  tower. 
Thou  gleam'st  against  the  western  ray 
Ten  thousand  lines  of  brighter  day. 


MARMION.  ^ 

Not  she,  the  championess  of  old, 

In  Spenser's  magic  tale  enrolled, — 

She  for  tlie  charmed  spear  renowned. 

Which  forced  each  knight  to  kiss  the  ground,  — 

Not  she  more  changed,  when,  placed  at  rest, 

What  time  she  was  Malbecco's  guest, 

She  gave  to  flow  her  maiden  vest ; 

When  from  the  corslet's  grasp  relieved, 

Free  to  the  sight  her  bosom  heaved; 

Sweet  was  her  blue  eye's  modest  smile, 

Erst  hidden  by  the  aventayle; 

And  down  her  shoulders  graceful  rolled 

Her  locks  profuse,  of  paly  gold. 

They  who  whilome,  in  midnight  fight, 

Had  marvelled  at  her  matchless  might, 

No  less  her  maiden  charms  approved, 

But  looking  liked,  and  liking  loved. 

The  sights  could  jealous  pangs  beguile, 

And  charm  Malbecco's  cares  awhile ; 

And  he,  the  wandering  Squire  of  Dames, 

Forgot  his  Columbella's  claims, 

And  passion,  erst  unknown,  could  gain 

The  breast  of  blunt  Sir  Satyrane ; 

Nor  durst  light  Paridel  advance. 

Bold  as  he  was,  a  looser  glance,  — 

She  charmed,  at  once,  and  tamed  the  heart, 

Incomparable  Britomarte! 


So  thou,  fair  City!  disarrayed 
Of  battled  wall  and  rampart's  aid. 
As  stately  seem'st,  but  lovelier  far 
Than  in  that  panoply  of  war. 


MARMION.  229 

Nor  deem  that  from  thy  fenceless  throne 
Strength  and  security  are  flown; 
Still,  as  of  yore,  Queen  of  the  North ! 
Still  canst  thou  send  thy  children  forth. 
Ne'er  readier  at  alarm-bell's  call 
Thy  burghers  rose  to  man  thy  wall, 
Than  now,  in  danger,  shall  be  thine, 
Thy  dauntless  voluntary  line; 
For  fosse  and  turret  proud  to  stand, 
Their  breasts  the  bulwark  of  the  land. 
Thy  thousands,  trained  to  martial  toil. 
Full  red  would  stain  their  native  soil, 
Ere  from  thy  mural  crown  there-  fell 
The  slightest  knosp  or  pinnacle. 
And  if  it  come,  —  as  come  it  may, 
Dun-Edin!  that  eventful  day, — 
Renowned  for  hospitable  deed. 
That  virtue  much  with  heaven  may  plead, 
In  patriarchal  times  whose  care 
Descending  angels  deigned  to  share  ; 
That  claim  may  wrestle  blessings  down 
On  those  who  fight  for  the  Good  Town, 
Destined  in  every  age  to  be 
Refuge  of  injured  royalty ; 
Since  first,  when  conquering  York  arose, 
To  Henry  meek  she  gave  repose. 
Till  late,  with  wonder,  grief,  and  awe, 
Great  Bourbon's  relics,  sad  she  saw. 


Truce  to  these  thoughts !  —  for,  as  they  rise, 
How  gladly  I  avert  mine  eyes, 
Bodings,  or  true  or  false,  to  change, 
For  Fiction's  fair  romantic  range, 

20 


230  MARMION. 

Or  for  Tradition's  dubious  light, 
That  hovers  'twixt  the  day  and  night: 
Dazzling  alternately  and  dim, 
Her  wavering  lamp  I'd  rather  trim. 
Knights,  squires,  and  lovely  dames  to  see, 
Creation  of  my  fantasy. 
Than  gaze  abroad  on  reeky  fen, 
And  make  of  mists  invading  men. — 
Who  loves  not  more  the  night  of  June 
Than  dull  December's  gloomy  noon  ? 
,        The  moonlight  than  the  fog  of  frost? 

And  can  we  say,  which  cheats  the  most? 


But  who  shall  teach  my  harp  to  gain 
A  sound  of  the  romantic  strain. 
Whose  Anglo-Norman  tone  whilere 
Could  win  the  Second  Henry's  ear, 
Famed  Beauclerc  called,  for  that  he  loved 
The  minstrel,  and  his  lay  approved  ? 
Who  shall  these  lingering  notes  redeem. 
Decaying  on  Oblivion's  stream; 
Such  notes  as  from  the  Breton  tongue 
Marie  translated,  Blondel  sung?  — 
O !  born  Time's  ravage  to  repair. 
And  make  thy  dying  Muse  thy  care ; 
Who  when  his  scythe  her  hoary  foe 
Was  poising  for  the  final  blow. 
The  weapon  from  his  hand  could  wring. 
And  break  his  glass,  and  shear  his  wing, 
And  bid,  reviving  in  his  strain, 
The  gentle  poet  live  again ; 
Thou,  who  canst  give  to  lightest  lay 
An  unpedantic  moral  gay. 


Nor  less  the  dullest  theme  bid  flit 
On  wings  of  unexpected  wit ; 
In  letters  as  in  life  approved, 
Example  honored,  and  beloved,  — 
Dear  Ellis  !  to  the  bard  impart 
A  lesson  of  thy  magic  art. 
To  win  at  once  the  head  and  heart, — 
At  once  to  charm,  instruct,  and  mend. 
My  guide,  my  pattern,  and  my  friend ! 

Such  minstrel  lesson  to  bestow 
Be  long  thy  pleasing  task,  —  but,  O  ! 
No  more  by  thy  example  teach 
What  few  can  practice,  all  can  preach ; 
With  even  patience  to  endure 
Lingering  disease,  and  painful  cure. 
And  boast  affliction's  pangs  subdued 
By  mild  and  manly  fortitude.  , 
Enough,  the  lesson  has  been  given: 
Forbid  the  repetition,  Heaven ! 


Come,  listen,  then!  for  thou  hast  known, 
And  loved,  the  Minstrel's  varying  tone; 
Who,  like  his  Border  sires  of  old. 
Waked  a  wild  measure,  rude  and  bold. 
Till  Windsor's  oaks,  and  Ascot  plain, 
Witli  wonder  heard  the  northern  strain. 
Come,  listen!  —  bold  in  thy  applause. 
The  Bard  shall  scorn  pedantic  laws ; 
And,  as  the  ancient  art  could  stain 
Achievements  on  the  storied  pane, 
Irregularly  traced  and  planned. 
But  yet  so  glowing  and  so  grand  5 


231 


MARMION. 


So  shall  he  strive,  in  changeful  hue 
Field,  feast,  and  combat,  to  renew, 
And  loves,  and  arms,  and  harpers'  glee, 
And  all  the  pomp  of  chivalry. 


CANTO  FIFTH. 


THE   COURT. 


The  train  has  left  the  hills  of  Braid; 
The  barrier  guard  have  open  made, 
(So  Lindesay  bade,)  the  palisade, 

That  closed  the  tented  ground,^ 
Their  men  the  warders  backward  drew,' 
And  carried  pikes  as  they  rode  through, 

Into  its  ample  bound. 
Fast  ran  the  Scottish  warriors  there. 
Upon  the  Southern  band  to  stare  f 
And  envy  with  their  wonder  rose, 
To  see  such  well-appointed  foes; 
Such  lengths  of  shafts,  such  mighty  bows, 
So  huge,  that  many  simple  thought. 
But  for  a  vaunt  such  weapons  wrought; 
And  little  deemed  their  force  to  feel. 
Through  links  of  mail,  and  plates  of  steel, 


MARMION.  233 

When,  rattling  upon  Flodden  vale, 
The  cloth-yard  arrows  flew  like  hail. 

Nor  less  did  Marraion's  skillful  view 
Glance  every  line  and  squadron  through ; 
And  much  he  marvelled  one  small  land 
Could  marshal  forth  such  various  band: 

For  men-at-arms  were  here, 
Heavily  sheathed  in  mail  and  plate, 
Like  iron  towers  for  strength  and  weight, 
On  Flemish  steeds  of  bone  and  height. 

With  battle-axe  and  spear. 
Young  knights  and  squires,  a  lighter  train, 
Practiced  their  chargers  on  the  plain. 
By  aid  of  leg,  of  hand,  and  rein. 

Each  warlike  feat  to  show; 
To  pass,  to  wheel,  the  croupe  to  gain. 
And  high  curvett,  that  not  in  vain 
The  sword-sway  might  descend  amain 

On  foeman's  casque  below. 
He  saw  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  armed,  on  foot,  with  faces  bare, 

For  visor  they  wore  none. 
Nor  waving  plume,  nor  crest  of  knight; 
But  burnished  were  their  corslets  bright, 
Their  brigantines,  and  gorgets  light, 

Like  very  silver  shone. 
Long  pikes  they  had  for  standing  fight, 

Two-handed  swords  they  wore. 
And  many  wielded  mace  of  weight, 

And  bucklers  bright  they  bore. 

On  foot  the  yeoman  too,  but  dressed 
In  his  steel  jack,  a  swarthy  vest, 

20* 


9p|4  MARMION. 

With  iron  quilted  well  ; 
Each  at  his  back  (a  slender  store) 
His  forty  days'  provision  bore, 

As  feudal  statutes  tell. 
His  arms  were  halbard,  axe,  or  spear, 
A  cross-bow  there,  a  hagbut  here, 

A  dagger-knife,  and  brand.  — 
Sober  he  seemed,  and  sad  of  cheer, 
As  loth  to  leave  his  cottage  dear, 

And  march  to  foreign  strand ; 
Or  musing  who  could  guide  his  steer, 

To  till  the  fallow  land. 
Yet  deem  not  in  his  thoughtful  eye 
Did  aught  of  dastard  terror  lie ;  — 

More  dreadful  far  his  ire, 
Than  theirs,  who,  scorning  danger's  name, 
In  eager  mood  to  battle  came, 
Their  valor  like  light  straw  on  flame, 

A  fierce  but  fading  fire. 


Not  so  the  Borderer :  —  bred  to  war, 
He  knew  the  battle's  din  afar. 

And  joyed  to  hear  it  swell. 
His  peaceful  day  was  slothful  ease, 
Nor  harp,  nor  pipe,  his  ear  could  please. 

Like  the  loud  slogan  yell. 
On  active  steed,  with  lance  and  blade. 
The  light-armed  pricker  plied  his  trade, — 

Let  nobles  fight  for  fame ; 
Let  vassals  follow  where  they  lead. 
Burghers,  to  guard  their  townships,  bleed, 

But  war's  the  Borderers'  game. 


MARMIOTi.  235 

Their  gain,  their  glory,  their  delight, 
To  sleep  the  day,  maraud  the  night, 

O'er  mountain,  moss,  and  moor; 
Joyful  to  fight  they  took  their  way, 
Scarce  caring  who  might  win  the  day. 

Their  booty  was  secure. 
These,  as  Lord  Marmion's  train  passed  by, 
Looked  on  at  first  with  careless  eye, 
Nor  marvelled  aught,  well  taught  to  know 
The  form  and  force  of  English  bow. 
But  when  they  saw  the  Lord  arrayed 
In  splendid  arms,  and  rich  brocade. 
Each  Borderer  to  his  kinsman  said, — 

"  Hist,  Ringan !  seest  tliou  there  ! 
Canst  guess  which  road  they'll  homeward  ride  ? 
O !  could  we  but  on  Border  side. 
By  Eusdale  glen,  or  Liddell's  tide. 

Beset  a  prize  so  fair! 
That  fangless  Lion,  too,  their  guide. 
Might  chance  to  lose  his  glistering  hide; 
Brown  Maudlin,  of  that  doublet  pied. 

Could  make  a  kirtle  rare." 


Next  Marmion  marked  the  Celtic  race. 
Of  difierent  language,  form,  and  face, 

A  various  race  of  man; 
Just  then  the  chiefs  their  tribes  arrayed, 
And  wild  and  garish  semblance  made, 
The  checkered  trews,  and  belted  plaid, 
And  varying  notes  the  war-pipes  brayed 

To  every  varying  clan; 
Wild  through  their  red  or  sable  hair 
Looked  out  their  eyes,  with  savage  stare, 


236  MARMION. 

On  Marmion  as  he  passed; 
Their  legs  above  the  knee  were  bare ; 
Their  frame  was  sinewy,  short,  and  spare, 

And  hardened  to  the  blast; 
Of  taller  race,  the  chiefs  they  own 
Were  by  the  eagle's  plumage  known. 
The  hunted  red-deer's  undressed  hide 
Their  hairy  buskins  well  supplied  ; 
The  graceful  bonnet  decked  their  head; 
Back  from  the  shoulders  hung  the  plaid; 
A  broadsword  of  unwieldy  length, 
A  dagger  proved  for  edge  and  strength, 

A  studded  targe  they  wore, 
And  quivers,  bows,  and  shafts,  —  but,  O ! 
Short  was  the  shaft,  and  weak  the  bow, 

To  that  which  England  bore. 
The  Isles-men  carried  at  their  backs. 
The  ancient  Danish  battle-axe. 
They  raised  a  wild  and  wondering  cry, 
As  with  his  guide  rode  Marmion  by. 
Loud  were  their  clamoring  tongues,  as  when 
The  clanging  sea-fowl  leave  the  fen. 
And,  with  their  cries  discordant  mixed, 
Grumbled  and  yelled  the  pipes  betwixt 

Thus  through  the  Scottish  camp  they  passed, 
And  reached  the  City  gate  at  last, 
Where  all  around,  a  wakeful  guard, 
Armed  burghers  kept  their  watch  and  ward. 
Well  had  they  cause  of  jealous  fear, 
When  lay  encamped,  in  field  so  near, 
The  Borderer  and  the  Mountaineer. 
As  through  the  bustling  streets  they  go, 
All  was  alive  with  martial  show; 


MARMION.  237 

At  every  turn,  with  dinning  clang, 

The  armorer's  %nvil  clashed  and  rang ; 

Or  toiled  the  swarthy  smith,  to  wheel 

The  bar  that  arms  the  charger's  heel; 

Or  axe,  or  falchion,  to  the  side 

Of  jarring  grindstone  was  applied. 

Ps-gG)  groom,  and  squire,  with  hurrying  pace, 

Through  street,  and  lane,  and  market-place, 

Bore  lance,  or  casque,  or  sword ; 
While  burghers,  with  important  face. 

Described  each  new-come  lord. 
Discussed  his  lineage,  told  his  name, 
His  following,  and  his  warlike  fame. — 
The  Lion  led  to  lodging  meet. 
Which  high  o'erlooked  the  crowded  street; 

There  must  the  Baron  rest. 
Till  past  the  hour  of  vesper  tide. 
And  then  to  Holy-Rood  must  ride, — 

Such  was  the  King's  behest 
Meanwhile  the  Lion's  care  assigns 
A  banquet  rich,  and  costly  wines, 

To  Marmion  and  his  train. 
'And  when  the  appointed  hour  succeeds, 
The  Baron  dons  his  peaceful  weeds, 
And  following  Lindesay  as  he  leads, 

The  palace-halls  they  gain. 


Old  Holy-Rood  rung  merrily. 
That  night,  with  wassail,  mirth,  and  glee. 
King  James  within  her  princely  bower 
Feasted  the  chiefs  of  Scotland's  power, 
Summoned  to  spend  the  parting  hour; 


2^8  MARMION. 

For  he  had  charged,  that  liis  array 
Should  southward  march  by  break  of  day. 
Well  loved  that  splendid  monarch  aye 

The  banquet  and  the  song, 
By  day  the  tourney,  and  by  night 
The  merry  dance,  traced  fast  and  light, 
The  maskers  quaint,  the  pageant  bright, 

The  revel  loud  and  long. 
This  feast  outshone  his  banq^uets  past; 
It  was  his  blithest,  —  and  his  last. 

The  dazzling  lamps,  from  gallery  gay, 

Cast  on  the  court  a  dancing  ray ; 

Here  to  the  harp  did  minstrels  sing ; 

There  ladies  touched  a  softer  string; 

With  long-eared  cap,  and  motley  vest. 

The  licensed  fool  retailed  his  jest; 

His  magic  tricks  the  juggler  plied; 

At  dice  and  draughts  the  gallants  vied; 
While  some,  in  close  recess  apart. 
Courted  the  ladies  of  their  heart, 

Nor  courted  them  in  vain: 
For  often,  in  the  parting  hour. 
Victorious  love  asserts  his  power 

O'er  coldness  and  disdain; 
And  flinty  is  her  heart,  can  view 
To  battle  march  a  lover  true, — 
Can  hear,  perchance,  his  last  adieu. 
Nor  own  her  share  of  pain. 


Through  this  mixed  crowd  of  glee  and  game, 
The  King  to  greet  Lord  Marmion  came. 
While,  reverend,  all  made  room. 


MARMION. 


239 


And  easy  task  it  was,  I  trow, 
King  James's  manly  form  to  know, 
Although,  his  courtesy  to  show. 
He  doffed,  to  Marmion  bending  low, 

His  broidered  cap  and  plume. 
For  royal  were  his  garb  and  mien, 

His  cloak,  of  crimson  velvet  piled, 

Trimmed  with  the  fur  of  martin  wild; 
His  vest,  of  changeful  satin  sheen. 

The  dazzled  eye  beguiled; 
His  gorgeous  collar  hung  adown. 
Wrought  with  the  badge  of  Scotland's  crown, 
The  thistle  brave,  of  old  renown; 
His  trusty  blade,  Toledo  right. 
Descended  from  a  baldric  bright; 
White  were  his  buskins,  on  the  heel 
His  spurs  inlaid  of  gold  and  steel ; 
His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair, 
Was  buttoned  with  a  ruby  rare: 
And  Marmion  deemed  he  ne'er  had  seen 
A  prince  of  such  a  noble  mien. 

The  monarch's  form  was  middle  size ; 
For  feat  of  strength,  or  exercise, 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair; 
And  hazel  was  his  eagle  eye, 
And  auburn  of  the  darkest  dye. 

His  short  curled  beard  and  hair. 
Light  was  his  footstep  in  the  dance. 

And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists; 
And,  oh !  he  had  that  merry  glance 

That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists. 
Lightly  from  fair  to  fair  he  flew, 
And  loved  to  plead,  lament,  and  sue ;  — 


#) 


Suit  lightly  won,  and  short-lived  pain ! 
For  monarchs  seldom  sigh  in  vain. 

I  said  he  joyed  in  banquet-bower; 
But,  mid  his  mirth,  'twas  often  strange, 
How  suddenly  his  cheer  Avould  change, 

His  look  o'ercast  and  lower. 
If,  in  a  sudden  turn,  he  felt 
The  pressure  of  his  iron  belt. 
That  bound  his  breast  in  penance-pain, 
In  memory  of  his  father  slain. 
Even  so  'twas  strange  how,  evermore,. 
Soon  as  the  passing  pang  was  o'er. 
Forward  he  rushed,  with  double  glee, 
Into  the  stream  of  revelry: 
I    Thus,  dim-seen  object  of  affright 
•  '    Startles  the  courser  in  his  flight, 

\  And  half  he  halts,  half  springs  aside; 

'  But  feels  the  quickening  spur  applied. 
And,  straining  on  the  tightened  rein. 
Scours  doubly  swift  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


O'er  James's  heart,  the  courtiers  say. 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron's  wife  held  sway: 

To  Scotland's  court  she  came. 
To  be  a  hostage  for  her  lord, 
Who  Cessford's  gallant  heart  had  gored. 
And  with  the  King  to  make  accord, 

Had  sent  his  lovely  dame. 
Nor  to  that  lady  free  alone 
Did  the  gay  King  allegiance  own; 

For  the  fair  Queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  Turquois  ring,  and  glove, 
And  charged  him,  as  her  knight  and  love, 


MARMIOX.  941 

For  her  to  break  a  lance; 
And  strike  three  strokes  with  Scottish  brand, 
And  march  three  miles  on  southern  land, 
And  bid  the  banners  of  his  band 

In  English  breezes  dance. 
And  thus  for  France's  Queen,  he  drest 
His  manly  limbs  in  mailed  vest; 
And  thus  admitted  English  fair, 
His  inmost  counsels  still  to  share ; 
And  thus,  for  both,  he  madly  planned 
The  ruin  of  himself  and  land! 

And  yet,  the  sooth  to  tell. 
Nor  England's  fair,  nor  France's  Queen, 
Were  worth  one  pearl-drop,  bright  and  sheen, 

From  Margaret's  eyes  that  fell, — 
His  own  Queen  Margaret,  who,  in  Lithgow's 

bower. 
All  lonely  sat,  and  wept  the  weary  hour. 


The  Queen  sits  low  in  Lithgow  pile. 

And  weeps  the  weary  day. 
The  war  against  her  native  soil. 
Her  Monarch's  risk  in  battle  broil:  — 
And  in  gay  Holy-Rood,  the  while. 
Dame  Heron  rises,  with  a  smile. 

Upon  the  harp  to  play. 
Fair  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 

The  strings  her  fingers  flew ; 
And  as  she  touched  and  tuned  them  all, 
Even  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall 

Was  plainer  given  to  view; 
For,  all  for  heat,  was  laid  aside 
Her  wimple,  and  her  hood  untied. 


l'z=z 


242  MARMION. 

And  first  she  pitched  her  voice  to  sing, 

Then  glanced  her  dark  eye  on  the  King, 

And  then  around  the  silent  ring; 

And  laughed,  and  blushed,  and  oft  did  say 

Her  pretty  oath,  by  Yea,  and  Nay, 

She  could  not,  would  not,  durst  not  play! 

At  length,  upon  the  harp,  with  glee. 

Mingled  with  arch  simplicity, 

A  soft,  yet  lively,  air  she  rung. 

While  thus  the  wily  lady  sung. 


x/ 


LOCHINVAK. 

LADY    heron's    SONG. 


O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west. 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best, 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none ; 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone. 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late ; 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war. 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all: 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 
(For  the  poor  crajen  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 


MARMION.  348 

"  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvax  ?  "  — 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied ;  — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  — 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine. 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far. 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar,  — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure  ! "  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'Twere  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Loch- 
invar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall  door  and  the  charger 

stood  near: 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
"  She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur: 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 


S44 


MARMION. 


There  was  mounting  'mong  Greemes  of  the  Netherby 

clan ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran; 
There  was  racing,  and  chasing,  on  Cannoble  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 


The  Monarch  o'er  the  syren  hung. 
And  beat^the  measure  as  she  sung; 
And,  pressing  closer,  and  more  near, 
He  whispered  praises  in  her  ear. 
In  loud  applause  the  courtiers  vied; 
And  ladies  winked,  and  spoke  aside. 
The  witching  dame  to  Marmion  threw 

A  glance,  where  seemed  to  reign 
The  pride  that  claims  applauses  due. 
And  of  her  royal  conquest,  too, 

A  real  or  feigned  disdain : 
Familiar  was  the  look,  and  told, 
Marmion  and  she  were  friends  of  old. 
The  King  observed  their  meeting  eyes. 
With  something  like  displeased  surprise ; 
For  monarchs  ill  can  rivals  brook. 
Even  in  a  word,  or  smile,  or^look. 
Straight  took  he  forth  the  parchment  bro!!d, 
Which  Marmion's  high  commission  showed : 
"Our  Borders  sacked  by  many  a  raid, 
Our  peaceful  liege-men  robbed,"  he  said; 
"On  day  of  truce  our  Warden  slain, 
Stout  Barton  killed,  his  vessels  ta'en  — 


MARMiON.  94^ 

# 

Unworthy  were  we  here  to  reign, 
Should  these  for  vengeance  cry  in  vain; 
Our  full  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn. 
Our  herald  has  to  Henry  borne."  — 


He  paused,  and  led  where  Douglas  stood, 
And  with  stern  eye  the  pageant  viewed: 
I  mean  that  Douglas,  sixth  of  yore. 
Who  coronet  of  Angus  bore. 
And,  when  his  blood  and  heart  were  high, 
Did  the  third  James  in  camp  defy. 
And  all  his  minion's  led  to  die 
,  On, Lauder's  dreary  flat: 
Princes  and  favorites  long  grew  tame, 
And  trembled  at  the  homely  name 

Of  Archibald  Bell-the-Cat. 
The  same  who  left  the  dusky  vale 
Of  Hermitage  in  Liddisdale, 

Its  dungeons,  and  its  towers. 
Where  Bothwell's  turrets  brave  the  air, 
And  Bothwell  bank  is  blooming  fair, 

To  fix  his  princely  bowers. 
Though  now,  in  age,  he  had  laid  down 
His  armor  for  the  peaceful  gown. 

And  for  a  staff  his  brand. 
Yet  often  would  flash  forth  the  fire, 
That  could,  in  youth,  a  monarch's  ire 

And  minion's  pride  withstand; 
And  even  that  day,  at  council  board. 

Unapt  to  sooth  his  sovereign's  mood. 

Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood. 
And  chafed  his  royal  Lord. 


246  MARMION. 

His  giant-form,  like  ruined  tower, 
Though  fallen  its  muscles'  brawny  vaunt. 
Huge-boned,  and  tall,  and  grim,  and  gaunt, 

Seemed  o'er  the  gaudy  scene  to  lower: 
His  locks  and  beard  in  silver  grew; 
His  eye-brows  keep  their  sable  hue. 
Near  Douglas  when  the  Monarch  stood, 
His  bitter  speech  he  thus  pursued:  — 
"Lord  Marmion,  since  these  letters  say 
That  in  the  North  you  needs  must  stay. 

While  slightest  hopes  of  peace  remain, 
Uncourteous  speech  it  were,  and  stem. 
To  say  —  Return  to  Lindisfarn, 

UntU  my  herald  come  again.  — 
Then  rest  you  in  Tantallon  Hold; 
Your  host  shall  be  the  Douglas  bold, — 
A  chief  unlike  his  sires  of  old. 
He  wears  their  motto  on  his  blade, 
Their  blazon  o'er  his  towers  displayed; 
Yet  loves  his  sovereign  to  oppose, 
More  than  to  face  his  country's  foes. 
And,  I  bethink  me,  by  Saint  Stephen, 

But  e'en  this  morn  to  me  was  given 
A  prize,  the  first-fruits  of  the  war, 
Ta'en  from  a  galley  from  Dunbar, 

A  bevy  of  the  maids  of  heaven. 
Under  your  guard,  these  holy  maids 
Shall  safe  return  to  cloister  shades. 
And,  while  they  at  Tantallon  stay. 
Requiem  for  Cochran's  soul  may  say."  — 
And,  with  the  slaughtered  favorite's  name. 
Across  the  Monarch's  brow  there  came 
A  cloud  of  ire,  remorse,  and  shame. 


MARMIOxV.  247 

In  answer  naught  could  Angus  speak; 

His  proud  heart  swelled  well  nigh  to  break; 

He  turned  aside,  and  down  his  cheek 

A  burning  tear  there  stole. 
His  hand  the  Monarch  sudden  took, 
That  sight  his  kind  heart  could  not  brook: 
"  Now,  by  the  Bruce's  soul, 
Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive ! 
For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live, 
As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old, 

I  well  may  say  of  you, — 
That  never  king  did  subject  hold, 
In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold, 

More  tender,  and  more  true ; 
Forgive  me,  Douglas,  once  again."  — 
And,  while  the  King  his  hand  did  strain. 
The  old  man's  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
To  seize  the  moment  Marmion  tried. 
And  whispered  to  the  King  aside:  — 
"  Oh !  let  such  tears  unwonted  plead 
For  respite  short  from  dubious  deed ! 
A  child  will  weep  at  bramble's  smart, 
A  maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripling  for  a  woman's  heart: 
But  wo  awaits  a  country,  when 
She  sees  the  tears  of  bearded  men. 
Then,  oh!  what  omen,  dark  and  high, 
When  Douglas  wets  his  manly  eye!"  — 

Displeased  was  James,  that  stranger  viewed 
And  tampered  with  his  changing  mood. 
"  Laugh  those  that  can,  weep  those  that  may," 
Thus  ^d  the  fiery  Monarch  say, 
"Southward  I  march  by  break  of  day; 


248  MARMION. 

And  if  within  Tantallon  strong, 

The  good  Lord  Marmion  tarries  long, 

Perchance  our  meeting  next  may  fall 

At  Tamworth,  in  his  castle-hall."  — 

The  haughty  Marmion  felt  the  taunt. 

And  answered,  grave,  the  royal  vaunt; 

"Much  honored  were  my  humble  home, 

If  in  its  halls  King  James  should  come; 

But  Nottingham  has  archers  good. 

And  Yorkshire  men  are  stern  of  mood; 

Northumbrian  prickers  wild  and  rude. 

On  Derby's  hills  the  paths  are  steep; 

In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  deep ; 

And  many  a  banner  will  be  torn. 

And  many  a  knight  to  earth  be  borne, 

And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent. 

Ere  Scotland's  King  shall  cross  the  Trent: 

Yet  pause,  brave  prince,  while  yet  you  may."- 

The  Monarch  lightly  turned  away. 

And  to  his  nobles  loud  did  call, — 

"  Lords,  to  the  dance,  —  a  hall !  a  hall !  " 

Himself  his  cloak  and  sword  flung  by. 

And  led  Dame  Heron  gallantly; 

And  minstrels,  at  the  royal  order. 

Rung  out, — -"Blue  Bonnets  o'er  the  Border." 


Leave  we  these  revels  now,  to  tell 
What  to  Saint  Hilda's  maids  befell, 
Whose  galley,  as  they  sailed  again 
To  Whitby,  by  a  Scot  was  ta'en. 
Now  at  Dun-Edin  did  they  bide, 
Till  James  should  of  their  fate  decme; 


MARMION.  249 

And  soon,  by  his  command, 
Were  gently  summoned  to  prepare 
To  journey  under  MarmioD's  care. 
As  escort  honored,  safe,  and  fair, 

Again  to  English  land. 
The  Abbess  told  her  chaplet  o'er, 
Nor  knew  which  Saint  she  should  implore ; 
For  when  she  thought  of  Constance,  sore 

She  feared  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
And  judge  what  Clara  must  have  felt ! 
The  sword,  that  hung  in  Marmion's  belt, 

Had  drunk  De  Wilton's  blood. 
Unwittingly,  King  James  had  given. 

As  guard  to  Whitby's  shades, 
The  man  most  dreaded  under  heaven 

By  these  defenceless  maids ; 
Yet  what  petition  could  avail. 
Or  who  would  listen  to  the  tale 
Of  woman,  prisoner  and  nun. 
Mid  bustle  of  a  war  begun  ? 
They  deemed  it  hopeless  to  avoid 
The  convoy  of  their  dangerous  guide. 


Their  lodging,  so  the  King  assigned. 
To  Marmion's,  as  their  guardian,  joined  j 
And  thus  it  fell,  that,  passing  nigh. 
The  Palmer  caught  the  Abbess'  eye. 

Who  warned  him  by  a  scroll. 
She  had  a  secret  to  reveal, 
That  much  concerned  the  Church's  weal, 

And  health  of  sinners'  soul ; 
And,  with  deep  charge  of  secrecy, 


ftSO 


MARMION. 

She  named  a  place  to  meet, 
Within  an  open  balcony, 
That  hung  from  dizzy  pitch,  and  high, 

Above  the  stately  street; 
To  which,  as  common  to  each  home, 
At  night  they  might  in  secret  come. 

At  night  in  secret  there  they  came, 
The  Palmer  and  the  holy  dame. 
The  moon  among  the  clouds  rode  high, 
And  all  the  city  hum  was  by. 

Upon  the  street,  where  late  before 

Did  din  of  war  and  warriors  roar. 
You  might  have  heard  a  pebble  fall, 

A  beetle  hum,  a  cricket  sing. 

An  owlet  flap  his  boding  wing 
On  Giles's  steeple  tall. 
The  antique  .buildings,  climbing  high. 
Whose  Gothic  frontlets  sought  the  sky, 

Were  here  wrapped  deep  in  shade; 
There,  on  their  brows  the  moon-beam  broke, 
Through  the  faint  wreaths  of  silvery  smoke. 

And  on  the  casement  played. 
And  other  light  was  none  to  see, 

Save  torches  gliding  far. 
Before  some  chieftain  of  degree, 
Who  left  the  royal  revelry 

To  bowne  him  for  the  war. — 
A  solemn  scene  the  Abbess  chose; 
A  solemn  hour,  her  secret  to  disclose. 

"O,  holy  Palmer!"  she  began, — 
"For  sure  he  must  be  sainted  man. 


MARMION.  251 

Whose  blessed  feet  have  trod  the  ground 
Where  the  Redeemer's  tomb  is  found;  — 
For  his  dear  Church's  sake,  my  tale 
Attend,  nor  deem  of  light  avail, 
Though  I  must  speak  of  worldly  love, — 
How  vain  to  those  who  wed  abdve !  — 
De  Wilton  and  Lord  Marmion  wooed 
Clara  de  Clare,  of  Gloster's  blood; 
(Idle  it  were  of  Whitby's  dame. 
To  say  of  that  same  blood  I  came ;) 
And  once,  when  jealous  rage  was  high, 
-Lord  Marmion  said  despiteously, 
Wilton  was  traitor  in  his  heart, 
And  had  made  league  with  Martin  Swart, 
When  he  came  here  on  Simnel's  part; 
And  only  cowa^^:ce  did  restrain 
His  rebel  aid  on  Stokefield's  plain, — 
And  down  he  threw  his  glove: — 'the  thing 
Was  tried,  as  wont,  before  the  King; 
Where  frankly  did  De  Wilton  own, 
That  Swart  in  Guelders  he  had  known; 
And  that  between  them  then  there  went 
Some  scroll  of  courteous  compliment.  , 
For  this  he  to  his  castle  sent; 
But  when  his  messenger  returned. 
Judge  how  De  Wilton's  fury  burned; 
For  in  his  packet  there  were  laid 
Letters  that  claimed  disloyal  aid. 
And  proved  King  Henry's  cause  betrayed. 
His  fame,  thus  blighted,  in  the  field 
He  strove  to  clear,  by  spear  and  shield ;  — 
To  clear  his  fame  in  vain  he  strove. 
For  wondrous  are  His  ways  above ! 


^-^i' 


252  MARMION. 

Perchance  some  form  was  unobserved ; 
Perchance  in  prayer,  or  faith,  he  swerved; 
Else  how  could  guiltless  champion  quail, 
Or  how  the  blessed  ordeal  fail? 

"His  squire,  who  now  De  Wilton  saw 
As  recreant  doomed  to  suffer  law, 

Repentant,  owned  in  vain, 
That,  while  he  had  the  scrolls  in  care, 
A  stranger  maiden,  passing  fair, 
Had  drenched  him  with  a  beverage  rare;- 

His  words  no  faith  could  gain. 
With  Clare  alone  he  credence  won, 
Who,  rather  than  wed  Marmion, 
Did  to  Saint  Hilda's  shrine  repair, 
To  give  our  house  her  livings  fair, 
And  die  a  vestal  vot'ress  there. 
The  impulse  from  the  earth  was  given, 
But  bent  her  to  the  paths  of  heaven. 
A  purer  heart,  a  lovelier  maid. 
Ne'er  sheltered  her  in  Whitby's  shade, 
No,  not  since  Saxon  Edelfled; 

Only  one  trace  of  earthly  strain, 
That  for  her  lover's  loss 

She  cherishes  a  sorrow  vain, 
And  murmurs  at  the  cross. — 
And  then  her  heritage  ;  —  it  goes 

Along  the  banks  of  Tame; 
Deep  fields  of  grain  the  reaper  mows, 
In  meadows  rich  the  heifer  lows, 
The  falconer,  and  huntsman,  knows 

Its  woodlands  for  the  game. 

'      Shame  were  it  to  Saint  Hilda  dear, 

And  I,  her  humble  vot'ress  here, 


MARMION.  |Ki3 

Should  do  a  deadly  sin, 
Her  temple  spoiled  before  mine  eyes, 
If  this  false  Marmion  such  a  prize 

By  my  consent  should  win ; 
Yet  hath  our  boisterous  Monarch  sworn, 
That  Clare  shall  from  our  house  be  torn, 
And  grievous  cause  have  I  to  fear, 
Such  mandate  doth  Lord  Marmion  bear. 

"  Now,  prisoner,  helpless,  and  betrayed 
To  evil  power,  I  claim  thine  aid. 

By  every  step  that  thou  hast  trod 
To  holy  shrine,  and  grotto  dim ; 
By  every  martyr's  tortured  limb ; 
By  angel,  saint,  and  seraphim. 

And  by  the  church  of  God ! 
For  mark :  —  When  Wilton  was  betrayed, 
And  with  his  squire  forged  letters  laid, 
She  was,  alas !  that  sinful  maid. 

By  whom  the  deed  was  done, — 
O !  shame  and  horror  to  be  said !  — 

She  was  a  perjured  nun : 
No  clerk  in  all  the  land,  like  her. 
Traced  quaint  and  varying  character. 

Perchance  you  may  a  marvel  deem, 
That  Marmion's  paramour, 

(For  such  vile  thing  she  was,)  should  scheme 
Her  lover's  nuptial  hour ; 

But  o'er  him  thus  she  hoped  to  gain, 
"    As  privy  to  his  honor's  stain. 
Illimitable  power: 

For  this  she  secretly  retained 
Each  proof  that  might  the  plot  reveal. 
Instructions  with  his  hand  and  seal; 

23 


j|B4  MARMION. 

And  thus  Saint  Hilda  deigned, 
Through  sinner's  pei-fidy  impure 
Her  house's  glory  to  secure, 

And  Clare's  immortal  weal. 


"'Twere  long,  and  needless,  here  to  tell, 
How  to  my  hand  these  papers  fell ; 

With  me  they  must  not  stay. 
Saint  Hilda  keep  her  Abbess  true! 
Who  knows  what  outrage  he  might  do, 

While  journeying  by  the  way  ?  — 
O!  blessed  Saint,  if  e'er  again 
I  venturous  leave  thy  calm  domain. 
To  travel  or  by  land  or  main, 

Deep  penance  may  I  pay!  — 
Now,  saintly  Palmer,  mark  my  prayer: 
I  give  this  packet  to  thy  care. 
For  thee  to  stop  they  will  not  dare; 

And,  O !  with  cautious  speed, 
To  Wolsey's  hand  the  papers  bring, 
That  he  may  show  them  to  the  King; 

And  for  thy  well-earned  meed, 
Thou  holy  man,  at  Whitby's  shrine, 
A  weekly  mass  shall  still  be  thine, 

While  priests  can  sing  and  read. — 
What  ail'st  thou  ?  —  Speak ! "  —  For  as  he  took 
The  charge,  a  strong  emotion  shook 

His  frame;  and,  ere  reply. 
They  heard  a  faint,  yet  shrilly  tone, 
Like  distant  clarion  feebly  blown. 

That  on  the  breeze  did  die; 
And  loud  the  Abbess  shrieked  in  fear, 
•*  Saint  Withold  save  us  !  —  What  is  here  ! 


255 


Look  at  yon  City  Cross ! 
See  on  its  battled  fower  appear 
Phantoms,  that  scutcheons  seem  to  rear, 

And  blazoned  banners  toss  !  "  — 


Dun-Edin's  Cross,  a  pillared  stone. 
Rose  on  a  turret  octagon ; 

(But  now  is  razed  that  monument, 
Whence  royal  edict  rang. 

And  voice  of  Scotland's  law  was  sent, 
In  glorious  trumpet  clang. 
O  !  be  his  tomb  as  lead  to  lead, 
Upon  his  dull  destroyer's  head! 
A  minstrel's  malison  is  said.  — ) 
Then  on  its  battlements  they  saw 
A  vision,  passing  Nature's  law, 

Strange,  wild,  and  dimly  seen ; 
Figures,  that  seemed  to  rise  and  die. 
Gibber  and  sign,  advance  and  fly, 
While  naught  confirmed  could  ear  or  eye 

Discern  of  sound  or  mien. 
Yet  darkly  did  it  seenn,  as  there 
Heralds  and  Pursuivants  prepare. 
With  trumpet  sound,  and  blazon  fair, 

A  summons  to  proclaim; 
But  indistinct  the  pageant  proud. 
As  fancy  forms  of  midnight  cloud, 
When  flings  the  moon  upon  her  shroud 

A  wavering  tinge  of  flame ; 
It  flits,  expands,  and  shifts,  till  loud, 
From  midmost  of  the  spectre  crowd. 

This  awful  summons  came:  — 


256  BfARMION. 

"  Prince,  prelate,  potentate,  and  peer, 

Whose  names  I  now  shall  call, 
Scottish,  or  foreigner,  give  ear! 
Subjects  of  him  who  sent  me  here, 
At  his  tribunal  to  appear, 
I  summon  one  and  all : 
I  cite  you  by  each  deadly  sin, 
That  e'er  hath  soiled  your  hearts  within; 
I  cite  you  by  each  brutal  lust, 
That  e'er  defiled  your  earthly  dust,  — 

By  wrath,  by  pride,  by  fear, 
By  each  o'ermastering  passion's  tone, 
By  the  dark  grave,  and  dying  groan! 
When  forty  days  are  past  and  gone, 
I  cite  you,  at  your  Monarch's  throne, 

To  answer  and  appear."  — 
Then  thundered  forth  a  roll  of  names:  — 
I  The  first  was  thine,  unhappy  James ! 
I        Then  all  thy  nobles  came; 
/    Crawford,  Glencairn,  Montrose,  Argyle, 
j    Ross,  Bothwell,  Forbes,  Lennox,  Lyle, — 
f     Why  should  I  tell  their  separate  style  ? 
I         Each  chief  of  birth  and  fame, 
;      Of  Lowland,  Highland,  Border,  Isle, 
Fore-doomed  to  Flodden's  carnage  pile, 

Was  cited  there  by  name ; 
And  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbay, 
De  Wilton,  erst  of  Aberley, 
The  self-srme  thundering  voice  did  say. — 

But  then  another  spoke : 
"Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny, 
And  thine  infernal  lord  defy, 
Appealing  me  |o  Hira  on  High, 


MARMION.  257 

Who  burst  the  sinner's  yoke."  — 
At  that  dread  accent,  with  a  scream, 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream, 

The  summoner  was  gone. 
Prone  on  her  face  the  Abbess  fell, 
And  fast,  and  fast,  her  beads  did  tell; 
Her  nuns  came,  startled  by  the  yell, 

And  found  her  there  alone. 
She  marked  not,  at  the  scene  aghast. 
What  time,  or  how,  the  Palmer  passed. 


Shift  we  the  scene.  —  The  camp  doth  move. 

Dun-Edin's  streets  are  empty  now, 
Save  when,  for  weal  of  those  they  love, 

To  pray  the  prayer,  and  vow  the  vow, 
The  tottering  child,  the  anxious  fair, 
The  grey-haired  sire,  with  pious  care, 
To  chapels  and  to  shrines  repair.  — 
Where  is  the  Palmer  now  ?  and  where 
The  Abbess,  Marmion,  and  Clare?  — 
Bold  Douglas !  to  Tantallon  fair 

They  journey  in  thy  charge : 
Lord  Marmion  rode  on  his  right  hand. 
The  Palmer  still  was  with  the  band; 
Angus,  like  Lindesay,  did  command. 

That  none  should  roam  at  large. 
But  in  that  Palmer's  altered  mien 
A  wondrous  change  might  now  be  seen  ; 

Freely  he  spoke  of  war,  ' 

Of  marvels  wrought  by  single  hand. 
When  lifted  for  a  native  land; 
And-  still  looked  high,  as  if  he  planned 

Some  desperate  deed  afar. 

22* 


258  MARMION. 

His  courser  would  he  feed,  and  stroke, 
And,  tucking  up  his  sable  frocke, 
Would  first  his  mettle  bold  provoke, 

Then  sooth,  or  quell  his  pride. 
Old  Herbert  said,  that  never  one 
He  saw,  except  Lord  Marmion, 

A  steed  so  fairly  ride. 

Some  half-hour's  march  behind,  there  came 
By  Eustace  governed  fair, 

A  troop  escorting  Hilda's  Dame, 
With  all  her  nuns,  and  Clare. 

No  audience  had  Lord  Marmion  sought ; 
Ever  he  feared  to  aggravate 
Clara  de  Clare's  suspicious  hate ; 

And  safer  'twas,  he  thought. 

To  wait  till,  from  the  nuns  removed. 

The  influence  of  kinsmen  loved. 

And  suit  by  Henry's  self  approved. 

Her  slow  consent  had  wrought. 

His  was  no  flickering  flame,  that  dies 

Unless  when  fanned  by  looks  and  sighs, 

And  lighted  oft  at  lady's  eyes ; 

He  longed  to  stretch  his  wide  command 

O'er  luckless  Clara's  ample  land: 

Besides,  when  Wilton  with  him  vied, 

Although  the  pang  of  humble  pride 

The  place  of  jealousy  supplied, 

Yet  conquest,  by  that  meanness  won 

He  almost  loathed  to  think  upon. 

Led  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  cause. 

Which  made  him  burst  through  honor's  laws. 

If  e'er  he  loved,  'twas  her  alone, 

Who  died  within  that  vault  of  stone. 


MARMION.  259 

And  now,  when  close  at  hand  they  saw 
North-Berwick's  town  and  lofty  Law, 
Fitz-Eustace  bade  them  pause  a  while, 
Before  a  venerable  pile, 

Whose  turrets  viewed,  afar. 
The  lofty  Bass,  the  Lambie  Isle, 

The  ocean's  peace  or  war. 
At  tolling  of  a  bell,  forth  came 
The  convent's  venerable  Dame, 
And  prayed  Saint  Hilda's  Abbess  rest 
With  her,  a  loved  and  honored  guest. 
Till  Douglas  should  a  bark  prepare 
To  waft  her  back  to  Whitby  fair. 


Glad  was  the  Abbess,  you  may  guess. 
And  thanked  the  Scottish  Prioress ; 
And  tedious  were  to  tell,  I  ween. 
The  courteous  speech  that  passed  1)etween. 

O'erjoyed  the  nuns  their  palfreys  leave: 
But  when  fair  Clara  did  intend. 
Like  them,  from  horseback  to  descend, 
Fitz-Eustace  said,  —  "I  grieve. 
Fair  lady,  grieve  e'en  from  my  heart, 
Such  gentle  company  to  part.  — 

Think  not  discourtesy, 
But  Lords'  commands  must  be  obeyed ; 
And  Marmion  and  the  Douglas  said. 

That  you  must  wend  with  me. 
Lord  Marmion  hath  a  letter  broad. 
Which  to  the  Scottish  Earl  he  showed. 
Commanding,  that  beneath  his  care. 
Without  delay,  you  should  repair. 
To  your  good  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare."— • 


2SD  MARMION. 

The  startled  Abbess  loud  exclaimed; 
But  she,  at  whom  the  blow  was  aimed, 
Grew  pale  as  death,  and  cold  as  lead, — 
She  deemed  she  heard  her  death-doom  read. 
"  Cheer  thee,  my  child ! "  the  Abbess  said, 
"They  dare  not  tear  thee  from  my  hand, 
To  ride  alone  with  armed  band."  — 

"Nay,  holy  mother,  nay," 
Fitz-Eustace  said,  "the  lovely  Clare 
Will  be  in  Lady  Angus'  care. 

In  Scotland  while  we  stay; 
And,  when  we  move,  an  easy  ride 
Will  bring  us  to  the  English  side, 
Female  attendance  to  provide 

Befitting  Gloster's  heir; 
Nor  thinks,  nor  dreams,  my  noble  lord, 
By  slightest  look,  or  act,  or  word, 

To  harass  Lady  Clare. 
Her  faithful  guardian  he  will  be. 
Nor  sue  for  slightest  courtesy 

That  e'en  to  stranger  falls. 
Till  he  shall  place  her,  safe  and  free. 

Within  her  kinsman's  halls."  — 
He  spoke,  and  blushed  with  earnest  grace; 
His  faith  was  painted  on  his  face. 

And  Clare's  worst  fear  relieved. 
The  Lady  Abbess  loud  exclaimed 
On  Henry,  and  the  Douglas  blamed, 

Entreated,  threatened,  grieved; 
To  martyr,  saint,  and  prophet  prayed, 
Against  Lord  Marmion  inveighed, 
And  called  the  Prioress  to  aid, 
To  curse  with  candle,  bell,  and  book,— 
Her  head  the  grave  Cistertian  shook: 


261 


"The  Douglas,  and  the  King,"  she  said, 
"In  their  commands  will  be  obeyed; 
Grieve  not,  nor  dream  that  harm  can  fail 
To  maiden  in  Tantallon  hall."  — 


The  Abbess,  seeing  strife  was  vain, 
Assumed  her  wonted  state  again, — 

For  much  of  state  she  had, — 
Composed  her  veil,  and  raised  her  head, 
And  —  "Bid,"  in  solemn  voice  she  said, 

"Thy  master,  bold  and  bad. 
The  records  of  his  house  turn  o'er, 
And,  when  he  shall  there  written  see, 
That  one  of  his  own  ancestry 
Drove  the  Monks  forth  of  Coventry, 
Bid  him  his  fate  explore! 

Prancing  in  pride  of  earthly  trust. 
His  charger  hurled  him  to  the  dust, 
And,  by  a  base  plebeian  thrust. 
He  died  his  band  before. 

God  judge  'twixt  Marmion  and  me : 
He  is  a  chief  of  high  degree. 
And  I  a  poor  recluse ; 

Yet  oft,  in  holy  writ,  we  see 
Even  such  weak  minister  as  me 
May  the  oppressor  bruise : 

For  thus,  inspired,  did  Judith  slay 

The  mighty  in  his  sin. 
And  Jael  thus,  and  Deborah,"  — 
Here  hasty  Blount  broke  in: 
"  Fitz-Eustace,  we  must  march  our  band 
St.  Anton  fire  thee!  wilt  thou  stand 
All  day,  with  bonnet  in  thy  hand. 


MARMION. 

To  hear  the  Lady  preach?  :' 

By  this  good  light!  if  thus  we  stay, 
Lord  Marmion,  for  our  fond  delay, 

Will  sharper  sermon  teach. 
Come,  don  thy  cap,  and  mount  thy  horse; 
The  Dame  must  patience  take  perforce."  — 

"  Submit  we  then  to  force,"  said  Clare ; 
"But  let  this  barbarous  lord  despair 

His  purposed  aim  to  win; 
Let  him  take  living,  land  and  life; 
But  to  be  Marmion's  wedded  wife 

In  me  were  deadly  sin: 
And  if  it  be  the  King's  decree. 
That  I  must  find  no  sanctuary. 
Where  even  a  homicide  might  come. 

And  safely  rest  his  head. 
Though  at  its  open  portals  stood. 
Thirsting  to  pour  forth  blood  for  blood, 

The  kinsmen  of  the  dead; 
Yet  one  asylum  is  my  own, 

Against  the  dreaded  hour; 
A  low,  a  silent,  and  a  lone. 

Where  kings  have  little  power. 
One  victim  is  before  me  there. — 
Mother,  your  blessing,  and  in  prayer 
Remember  your  unhappy  Clare!"  — 
Loud  weeps  the  Abbess,  and  bestows 

Kind  blessings  many  a  one ; 
Weeping  and  wailing  loud  arose 
Round  patient  Clare,  the  clamorous  woes 

Of  every  simple  nun. 
His  eyes  the  gentle  Eustace  dried, 
And  scarce  rude  Blount  the  sight  could  bide. 


MARMION.  263 

Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed, 
And,  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed, 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain. 


But  scant  three  miles  the  band  had  rode, 

When  o'er  a  height  they  passed. 
And,  sudden,  close  before  them  showed 

His  towers,  Tantallon  vast: 
Broad,  massive,  high,  and  stretching  far, 
And  held  impregnable  in  war. 
On  a  projecting  rock  they  rose. 
And  round  three  sides  the  ocean  flows ; 
The  fourth  did  battled  walls  enclose, 

And  double  mound  and  fosse. 
By  narrow  draw-bridge,  outworks  strong. 
Through  studded  gates,  an  entrance  long, 

To  the  main  court  they  cross. 
It  was  a  wide  and  stately  square; 
Around  were  lodgings,  fit  and  fair. 

And  towers  of  various  form. 
Which  on  the  court  projected  far, 
And  broke  its  lines  quadrangular. 
Here  was  square  keep,  there  turret  high, 
Or  pinnace  that  sought  the  sky, 
Whence  oft  the  Warder  could  descry 

The  gathering  ocean-storm. 


Here  did  they  rest. —The  princely  care 
Of  Douglas,  why  should  I  declare, 
Or  say  they  met  reception  fair? 
Or  why  the  tidings  say, 


964  MARMIOIf. 

Which,  varying,  to  Tantallon  came 
By  hurrying  posts,  or  fleeter  fame. 

With  every  varying  day  ?     ♦ 
And,  first,  they  heard  King  James  had  won 

Ettall,  and  Wark,  and  Ford;  and  then, 

That  Norham  castle  strong  was  ta'en. 
At  that  sore  marvelled  Marmion;  — 
And  Douglas  hoped  his  Monarch's  hand 
Would  soon  subdue  Northumberland: 

But  whispered  news  there  came, 
That,  while  his  host  inactive  lay. 
And  melted  by  degrees  away. 
King  James  was  dallying  off*  the  day 

With  Heron's  wily  dame. — 
Such  acts  to  chronicles  I  yield; 

Gro  seek  them  there,  and  see: 
Mine  is  a  tale  of  Flodden  Field, 

And  not  a  history. — 
At  length,  they  heard  the  Scottish  host 
On  that  high  ridge  had  made  their  post, 

Which  frowns  o'er  Millfield  Plain; 
And  that  brave  Surrey  many  a  band 
Had  gathered  in  the  southern  land. 

And  marched  into  Northumberland, 

And  camp  at  Wooler  ta'en. 
Marmion,  like  charger  in  the  stall, 
That  hears  without  the  trumpet  call. 

Began  to  chafe  and  swear:  — 
"A  sorry  thing  to  hide  my  head 
In  castle,  like  a  fearful  maid. 

When  such  a  field  is  near! 
Needs  must  I  see  this  battle-day; 
Death  to  my  fame,  if  such  a  fray 
Were  fought,  and  Marmion  away! 


MARMION. 


265 


The  Douglas,  too,  I  wot  not  why, 
Hatli  'bated  of  his  courtesy: 
No  longer  in  his  halls  I'll  stay."  — 
Then  bade  his  band,  they  should  array 
For  march  against  the  dawning  day. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SIXTH. 

Heap  on  more  wood  —  the  wind  is  chill; 
But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 
Each  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer: 
Even  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 
At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  dram; 
High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew. 
And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew ; 
Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall, 
Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall, 
They  gorged  upon  the  half-dressed  steer; 
Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer;^ 
While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 
The  half-gnawed  rib,  and  marrow-bone; 
Or  listened  all,  in  grim  delight, 
While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joys  of  fight 
Then  forth,  in  frenzy,  would  they  hie. 
While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly, 

23 


J$6  marKiion. 

And  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile, 
They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while, 
As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 
The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  haU. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved,  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled, 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again, 
With  all  his  hospitable  traiiL 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night: 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung; 
That  only  night,  in  all  the  year, 
.   Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen ; 
The  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go. 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
And  Ceremony  doffed  his  pride. 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes. 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose : 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "post  and  pair." 
All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight. 
And  general  voice,  the  happy  night. 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied. 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide ; 


MARMION.  267 

The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face, 

Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 

Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 

No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 

Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 

By  old  blue-coated  serving-man; 

Then  the  grim  boar's-head  frowned  on  high, 

Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 

Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell. 

How,  when,  and  where,  the  monster  fell; 

What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore. 

And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 

The  wassail  round  in  good  brown  bowls, 

Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 

There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked;  hard  by 

Plumb-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie ; 

Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce. 

At  such,  high-tide,  her  savory  goose. 

Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in. 

And  carols  roared  with  blithsome  din; 

If  unmelodious  was  the  song. 

It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 

Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 

Traces  of  ancient  mystery; 

White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade. 

And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made; 

But,  O!  what  maskers  richly  dight 

Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light! 

England  was  merry  England,  when 

Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 

'Twas  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale; 

'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale; 

A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 

The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 


268  MARMION. 

Still  linger  in  our  northern  clime 

Some  remnants  of  the  good  old  time ; 

And  still,  within  our  valleys  here, 

We  hold  the  kindred  title  dear, 

Even  when,  perchance,  its  far-fetched  claim 

To  Southron  ear  sounds  empty  name ; 

For  course  of  blood,  our  proverbs  deem, 

Is  warmer  than  the  mountain-stream. 

And  thus,  my  Christmas  still  I  hold 

Where  my  great-grandsire  came  of  old; 

With  amber  beard,  and  flaxen  hair, 

And  reverend  apostolic  air  — 

The  feast  and  holy-tide  to  share. 

And  mix  sobriety  with  wine. 

And  honest  mirth  with  thoughts  divine: 

Small  thought  was  his,  in  after  time 

E'er  to  be  hitched  into  a  rhyme. 

The  simple  sire  could  only  boast, 

That  he  was  loyal  to  his  cost ; 

The  banished  race  of  kings  revered, 

And  lost  his  land,  —  but  kept  his  beard. 

In  these  dear  halls,  where  welcome  kind, 
Is  with  fair  liberty  combined; 
Where  cordial  friendship  gives  the  hand, 
And  flies  constraint  the  magic  wand 
Of  the  fair  dame  that  rules  the  land. 
Little  we  heed  the  tempest  drear. 
While  music,  mirth,  and  social  cheer, 
Speed  on  their  wings  the  passing  year. 
And  Mertoun's  halls  are  fair  e'en  now, 
When  not  a  leaf  is  on  the  bough. 
Tweed  loves  them  well,  and  turns  again, 
As  loth  to  leave  the  sweet  domain; 


MARMION.  269 

And  holds  his  mirror  to  her  face, 
And  clips  her  with  a  close  embrace:  — 
Gladly  as  he,  we  seek  the  dome, 
And  as  reluctant  turn  us  home. 


How  just,  that,  at  this  time  of  glee. 
My  thoughts  should,  Heber,  turn  to  thee! 
For  many  a  merry  hour  we've  known, 
And  heard  the  chimes  of  midnight  tone. 
Cease,  then,  my  friend !  a  moment  cease, 
And  leave  these  classic  tomes  in  peace ! 
Of  Roman  and  of  Grecian  lore. 
Sure  mortal  brain  can  hold  no  more. 
These,  ancients,  as  Noll  Bluff  might  say, 
Were  "pretty  fellows  in  their  day," 
But  time  and  tide  o'er  all  prevail  — 
On  Christmas  eve  a  Christmas  tale  — 
Of  wonder  and  of  war  —  "Profane! 
What!  leave  the  lofty  Latin  strain. 
Her  stately  prose,  her  verse's  channs. 
To  hear  the  clash  of  rusty  arms; 
In  Fairy  Land  or  Limbo  lost. 
To  jostle  conjuror  and  ghost. 
Goblin  and  witch  I"  —  Nay,  Heber  dear, 
Before  you  touch  my  charter,  hear. 
Though  Leyden  aids,  alas !  no  more. 
My  cause  with  many-languaged  lore, 
This  may  I  say. —  in  realms  of  death 
Ulysses  meets  Alcides'  tvraith ;  ' 
iEneas,  upon  Thracia's  shore. 
The  ghost  of  murdered  Polydore , 
For  omens,  we  in  Livy  cross. 
At  every  turn,  locutus  Bos. 

23* 


270  MARMION. 

As  grave  and  duly  speaks  that  ox, 
As  if  he  told  the  price  of  stocks; 
Or  held,  in  Rome  republican, 
The  place  of  Common-councilman. 

All  nations  have  their  omens  drear, 

Their  legends  wild  of  wo  and  fear. 

To  Cambria  look  —  the  peasant  see. 

Bethink  him  of  Glendowerdy, 

And  shun  "the  spirit's  blasted  tree." 

The  Highlander,  whose  red  claymore 

The  battle  turned  on,  Maida's  shore, 

Will,  on  a  Friday  morn,  look  pale. 

If  asked  to  tell  a  fairy  tale  : 

He  fears  the  vengeful  Elfin  King, 

Who  leaves  that  day  his  grassy  ring; 

Invisible  to  human  ken. 

He  walks  among  the  sons  of  men. 

Didst  e'er,  dear  Heber,  pass  along 

Beneath  the  towers  of  Franch^mont, 

Which,  like  an  eagle's  nest  in  air. 

Hang  o'er  the  stream  and  hamlet  fair?  — 

Deep  in  their  vaults,  the  peasants  say, 

A  mighty  treasure  buried  lay. 

Amassed  through  rapine,  and  through  wrong, 

By  the  last  lord  of  Franch6mont. 

The  iron  chest  is  bolted  hard, 

A  Huntsman  sits,  its  constant  guard; 

Around  his  neck  his  horn  is  hung. 

His  hanger  in  his  belt  is  slung; 

Before  his  feet  his  bloodhounds  lie: 

An  'twere  not  for  his  gloomy  eye. 


MARMION.  271 

Whose  withering  glance  no  heart  can  brook, 

As  true  a  huntsman  doth  he  look, 

As  bugle  e'er  in  brake  did  sound, 

Or  ever  holloaed  to  a  hound. 

To  chase  the  fiend,  and  win  the  prize. 

In  that  same  dungeon  ever  tries 

An  aged  Necromantic  Priest ; 

It  is  an  hundred  years  at  least, 

Since  'twixt  them  first  the  strife  begun, 

And  neitlier  yet  has  lost  or  won. 

And  oft  the  conjuror's  words  will  make 

The  stubborn  Demon  groan  and  quake; 

And  oft  the  bands  of  u-on  break. 

Or  burst  one  lock,  that  still  amain. 

Fast  as  'tis  opened,  shuts  again. 

That  magic  strife  within  the  tomb 

May  last  until  the  day  of  doom. 

Unless  the  Adept  shall  learn  to  tell 

The  very  word  that  clenched  the  spell. 

When  Franch'mont  locked  the  treasure  cell. 

An  hundred  years  are  past  and  gone. 

And  scarce  three  letters  has  he  won. 


Such  general  superstition  may 
Excuse  for  old  Pitscottie  say;  ' 

Whose  gossip  history  has  given 
My  song  the  messenger  from  heaven. 
That  warned,  in  Lithgow,  Scotland's  King, 
Nor  less  the  infernal  summoning. 
May  pass  the  monk  of  Durham's  tale, 
Whose  Demon  fought  in  Gothic  mail; 
May  pardon  plead  for  Fordun  grave. 
Who  told  of  Gifford's  Goblin-Cave. 


^» 


But  why  such  instances  to  you, 
Who,  in  an  instant,  can  review 
Your  treasured  hoards  of  various  lore, ' 
And  furnish  twenty  thousand  more? 
Hoards,  not  like  their's  whose  volumes  rest 
Like  treasures  in  the  Franch'mont  chest; 
While  gripple  owners  still  refuse 
To  others  what  they  cannot  use ; 
Give  them  the  priest's  whole  century, 
They  shall  not  spell  you  letters  three; 
Their  pleasure  in  the  book's  the  same 
The  magpie  takes  in  pilfered  gem. 
Thy  volumes,  open  as  thy  heart. 
Delight,  amusement,  science,  art. 
To  every  ear  and  eye  impart; 
Yet  who,  of  all  who  thus  employ  them. 
Can,  like  the  owner's  self,  enjoy  them?  — 
But,  hark!  I  hear  the  distant  drum: 
The  day  of  Flodden  field  is  come.— 
Adieu,  dear  Heber!  life  and  health, 
And  store  of  literary  wealth. 


MARMION.  273 


CANTO  SIXTH. 

THE  BATTLE. 

While  great  events  were  on  the  gale, 

And  each  hour  brought  a  varying  tale, 

And  the  demeanor,  changed  and  cold, 

Of  Douglas,  fretted  Marmion  bold, 

And,  like  the  impatient  steed  of  war, 

He  snuffed  the  battle  from  afar; 

And  hopes  were  none,  that  back  agaim 

Herald  should  come  from  Terouenne,  |e r •  o o-*" r^ 

Where  England's  King  in  leaguer  lay, 

Before  decisive  battle-day ; 

While  these  things  were,  the  mournful  Clare 

Did  in  the  Dame's  devotions  share: 

For  the  good  Countess  ceaseless  prayed, 

To  heaven  and  Saints,  her  Sons  to  aid, 

And,  with  short  interval,  did  pass 

From  prayer  to  book,  from  book  to  mass, 

And  all  in  high  Baronial  pride, — 

A  life  both  dull  and  dignified;  — 

Yet  as  Lord  Marmion  nothing  pressed 

Upon  her  intervals  of  rest. 

Dejected  Clara  well  conld  beat 

.The  formal  state,  the  lengthened  prayer, 

Though  dearest  to  her  wounded  heart 

The  hours  that  she  might  spend  apart 

I  said,  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 
Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep. 
Many  a  rude  tower  and  rampart  there 
Repelled  the  insult  of  the  air. 


274  MARMION. 

Which,  when  the  tempest  vexed  the  sky, 

Half  breeze,  half  spray,  came  whistling  by. 

Above  the  rest,  a  turret  square 

Did  o'er  its  Gothic  entrance  bear, 

Of  sculpture  rude,  a  stony  shield.; 

The  Bloody  Heart  was  in  the  field. 

And  in  the  chief  three  mullets  stood, 

The  cognizance  of  Douglas  blood. 

The  turret  held  a  narrow  stair,       • 

Which,  mounted,  gave  you  access  where 

A  parapet's  embattled  row 

Did  seaward  round  the  castle  go; 

Sometimes  in  dizzy  steps  descending. 

Sometimes  in  narrow  circuit  bending. 

Sometimes  in  platform  broad  extending, 

Its  varying  crrcle  did  combine 

Bulwark,  and  bartisan,  and  line. 

And  bastion,  tower,  and  vantage-coign; 

Above  the  booming  ocean  leant 

The  far-projecting  battlement; 

The  billows  burst,  in  ceaseless  flow, 

Upon  the  precipice  below. 

Where'er  Tantallon  faced  the  land. 

Gate-works  and  walls  were  strongly  manned; 

No  need  upon  the  sea-girt  side ; 

The  steepy  rock,  and  frantic  tide. 

Approach  of  human  step  denied: 

And  thus  these  lines,  and  ramparts  rude. 

Were  left  in  deepest  solitude. 


And,  for  they  were  so  lonely,  Clare 
Would  to  these  battlements  repair. 
And  muse  upon  her  sorrows  there. 


MARMION. 

And  list  the  sea-bird's  cry ; 
Or  slow,  .like  noontide  guide 
Along  the  dark-gray  bulwarks'  side, 
And  ever  on  the  heaving  tide 

Look  down  with  weary  eye. 
Oft  did  the  cliff  and  swelling  main 
Recall  the  thoughts  of  Whitby's  fane, 
A  home  she  might  ne'er  see  again; 

For  she  had  laid  adown, 
So  Douglas  bade,  the  hood  and  veil, 
And  frontlet  of  the  cloister  pale. 

And  Benedictine  gown: 
It  were  unseemly  sight,  he  said, 
A  novice  out  of  convent  shade.  — 
Now  her  bright  locks,  with  sunny  glow 
Again  adorned  her  brow  of  snow ; 
Her  mantle  rich,  whose  borders,  round, 
A  deep  and  fretted  broidery  bound. 
In  golden  foldings  sought  the  ground ; 
Of  holy  ornament,  alone 
Remained  a  cross  with  ruby  stone; 

And  often  did  she  look 
On  that  which  in  her  hand  she  bore. 
With  velvet  bound,  and  broidered  o'er, — 

Her  breviary  book. 
In  such  a  place,  so  lone,  so  grim, 
At  dawning  pale,  or  tVilight  dim. 

It  fearful  would  have  been. 
To  meet  a  form  so  richly  dressed. 
With  book  in  hand,  and  cross  on  breast, 

And  such  a  woful  mien. 
Fitz-Eustace,  loitering  with  his  bow. 
To  practice  on  the  gull  and  crow. 
Saw  her,  at  distance,  gliding  slow, 


275 


276  MARMION. 

And  did  by  Mary  swear,  — 
Some  love-lorn  Fay  she  might  have  been, 
Or,  in  romance,  some  spell-bound  queen ; 
For  ne'er,  in  work-day  world,  was  seen 

A  form  so  witching  fair. 


Once  walking  thus,  at  evening  tide, 

It  chanced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied. 

And,  sighing,  thought  —  "The  Abbess  there, 

Perchance,  does  to  her  home  repair; 

Her  peaceful  rule,  where  Duty,  free. 

Walks  hand  in  hand  with  Charity ; 

Where  oft  Devotion's  tranced  glow 

Can  such  a  glimpse  of  heaven  bestow, 

That  the  enraptured  sisters  see 

High  vision,  and  deep  mystery ; 

The  very  form  of  Hilda  fair. 

Hovering  upon  the  sunny  air, 

And  smiling  on  her  votaries'  prayer. 

O  !  wherefore  to  my  duller  eye. 

Did  still  the  Saint  her  form  deny! 

Was  it,  that,  seared  by  sinful  scorn, 

My  heart  could  neither  melt  nor  burn? 

Or  lie  my  warm  affections  low. 

With  him  that  taught  them  first  to  glow?  — 

Yet,  gentle  Abbess,  Avell  I  knew. 

To  pay  thy  kindness  grateful  due. 

And  well  could  brook  the  mild  command, 

That  ruled  thy  simple  maiden  band. — 

How  different  now!  condemned  to  bide 

My  doom  from  this  dark  tyrant's  pride. — 

But  Marmion  has  to  learn,  ere  long. 

That  constant  mind,  and  hate  of  wrong, 


MARMION.  277 

Descended  to  a  feeble  girl, 

From  Red  De  Clare,  stout  Gloster's  Earl: 

Of  such  a  stem,  a  sapling  weak, 

He  ne'er  shall  bend,  although  he  break. 

"  But  see !  —  what  makes  this  armor  here  ?  " 

For  in  her  path  there  lay 
Targe,  corslet,  helm ;  —  she  viewed  them  near.  — 
"The  breast-plate  pierced!  —  Aye,  much  I  fear, 
Weak  fence  wert  thou  'gainst  foeman's  spear, 
That  hath  made  fatal  entrance  here. 

As  these  dark  blood-gouts- say. — 
Thus  Wilton  !  —  Oh  !  not  corslet's  ward, 
Not  truth,  as  diamond  pure  and  hard, 
Could  be  thy  manly  bosom's  guard. 

On  yon  disastrous  day  !  "  — 
She  raised  lier  eyes  in  mournful  mood, — 
Wilton  himself  before  her  stood ! 
It  might  have  seemed  his  passing  ghost, 
For  every  youthful  grace  was  lost ; 
And  joy  unwonted,  and  surprise. 
Gave  their  strange  wildness  to  his  eyes. — 
Expect  not,  noble  dames  and  lords, 
That  I  can  tell  such  scene  in  words: 
What  skillful  limner  e'er  would  choose 
To  paint  the  rainbow's  varying  hues, 
Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dyes  of  heaven? 

Far  less  can  my  weak  line  declare 
Each  changing  passion's  shade ; 

Brightening  to  rapture  from  despair. 

Sorrow,  surprise,  and  pity  there. 

And  joy,  with  her  angelic  air. 

And  liope  that  paints  the  future  fair, 

24 


278  MARMION. 

Their  varying  hues  displayed : 
Each  o'er  its  rival's  ground  extending, 
Alternate  conquering,  shifting,  blending. 
Till  all,  fatigued,  the  conflict  yield, 
And  mighty  Love  retains  the  field. 
Shortly  I  tell  what  then  he  said. 
By  many  a  tender  word  delayed. 
And  modest  blush,  and  bursting  sigh, 
And  question  kind,  and  fond  reply. 

DE  Wilton's  history. 

"Forget  we  that  disastrous  day, 

When  senseless  in  the  lists  I  lay. 

Thence  dragged,  —  but  how  I  cannot  know, 
For  sense  and  recollection  fled,  — 

I  found  me  on  a  pallet  low. 
Within  my  ancient  beadsman's  shed. 

Austin,  —  remember'st  thou,  my  Clare, 
How  thou  didst  blush,  when  the  old  man, 
When  first  our  infant  love  began, 

Said  we  would  make  a  matchless  pair?  — 
Menials,  and  friends,  and  kinsmen  fled 
From  the  degraded  traitor's  bed, — 
He  only  held  my  burning  head, 
And  tended  me  for  many  a  day. 
While  wounds  and  fever  held  their  sway. 
But  far  more  needful  was  his  care, 
When  sense  returned  to  wake  despair. 
For  I  did  tear  the  closing  wound. 
And  dash  me  frantic  on  the  ground. 
If  e'er  I  heard  the  name  of  Clare. 

At  length,  to  calmer  reason  brought. 

Much  by  his  kind  attendance  wrought, 


MARMION. 

With  him  I  left  my  native  strand, 
And,  in  a  palmer's  weeds  arrayed. 
My  hated  name  and  form  to  shade, 

I  journeyed  many  a  land; 
No  more  a  lord  of  rank  and  birth, 
But  mingled  with  the  dregs  of  earUi, 
Oft  Austin  for  my  reason  feared, 

When  I  would  sit,  and  deeply  brood 

On  dark  revenge,  and  deeds  of  blood, 
-Or  wild  mad  schemes  upreared. 

My  friend  at  length  fell  sick,  and  said, 
God  would  remove  him  soon ; 

And  while  upon  his  dying  bed, 
He  begged  of  me  a  boon  — 

If  ere  my  deadliest  enemy 

Beneath  my  brand  should  conquered  lie, 

Even  then  my  mercy  should  awake, 

And  spare  his  life  for  Austin's  sake. 


"Still  restless  as  a  second  Cain, 
To  Scotland  next  my  rout  was  ta'en. 

Full  well  the  paths  I  knew; 
Fame  of  my  fate  made  various  sound, 
That  death  in  pilgrimage  I  found. 
That  I  had  perished  of  my  wound, — 

None  cared  which  tale  was  true : 
And  living  eye  could  never  guess 
De  Wilton  in  his  palmer's  dress: 

For  now  that  sable  slough  is  shed. 

And  trimmed  my  shaggy  beard  and  head, 
I  scarcely  know  me  in  a  glass. 
A  chance  most  wond'rous  did  provide. 
That  I  should  be  that  Baron's  guide  — 


280  MARMIOPf. 

I  will  not  name  his  name !  — 
Vengeance  to  God  alone  belongs ; 
But,  when  I  think  on  all  my  wrongs, 

My  blood  is  liquid  flame ! 
And  ne'er  the  time  shall  I  forget, 
When  in  a  Scottish  hostel  set, 

Dark  looks  we  did  exchange ; 
What  were  his  thoughts  I  cannot  tell, 
But  in  my  bosom  mustered  Hell 

Its  plans  of  dark  revenge. 


"  A  word  of  vulgar  augury, 

That  broke  from  me,  I  scarce  knew  why, 

Brought  on  a  village  tale ; 
Which  wrought  upon  his  moody  sprite, 
And  sent  him  armed  forth  by  night 

I  borrowed  steed  and  mail. 
And  weapons,  from  his  sleeping  band ; 

And,  passing  from  a  postern  door. 
We  met,  and  'countered,  hand  to  hand, — 

He  fell  on  Gifford-moor, 
For  the  death-stroke  my  brand  I  drew, 
(O  then  my  helmed  head  he  knew. 

The  Palmer's  cowl  was  gone,) 
Then  had  three  inches  of  my  blade 
The  heavy  debt  of  vengeance  paid, — 
My  hand  the  thought  of  Austin  staid ; 

I  left  him  there  alone. — 
O  good  old  man !  even  from  the  grave, 
Thy  spirit  could  thy  master  save; 
If  I  had  slain  my  foeman,  ne'er 
Had  Whitby's  Abbess,  in  her  fear, 
Given  to  my  hand  this  packet  dear, 


MARMION. 

Of  power  to  clear  my  injured  fame, 
And  vindicate  De  Wilton's  name. — 
Perchance  you  heard  the  Abbess  tell 
Of  the  strange  pageantry  of  Hell, 

That  broke  our  secret  speech  — 
It  rose  from  the  infernal  shade. 
Or  featly  was  some  juggle  played, 

A  tale  of  peace  to  teach. 
Appeal  to  Heaven  I  judged  was  best. 
When  my  name  came  among  the  rest. 

"Now  here,  within  Tantallon  hold. 
To  Douglas  late  my  tale  I  told. 
To  whom  my  house  was  known  of  old. 
Won  by  my  proofs,  his  falchion  bright  - 
This  eve  anew  shall  dub  me  knight 
These  were  the  arms  that  once  did  turn 
The  tide  of  fight  on  Otterburne, 
And  Harry  Hotspur  forced  to  yield. 
When  the  Dead  Douglas  won  the  field. 
These  Angus  gave  —  his  armorer's  care. 
Ere  morn,  shall  every  breach  repair; 
For  naught,  he  said,  was  in  his  halls. 
But  ancient  armor  on  the  walls. 
And  aged  chargers  in  the  stalls, 
And  women,  priests,  and  gray-haired  men; 
The  rest  were  all  in  Twisell  glen. 
And  now  I  watch  my  armor  here. 
By  law  of  arms,  till  midnight's  near; 
Then,  once  again  a  belted  knight. 
Seek  Surrey's  camp  with  dawn  of  light 


"There  soon  again  we  meet,  my  Clare! 
This  Baron  means  to  guide  thee  there: 

24* 


261 


282  MARMION. 

Douglas  reveres  his  king's  command, 
Else  would  he  take  t^ee  from  his  band. 
And  there  thy  kinsman,  Surrey,  too. 
Will  give  De  Wilton  justice  due. 
Now  meeter  far  for  martial  broil, 
Firmer  my  limbs,  and  strung  by  toil, 

Once  more" "O,  Wilton!  must  we  then 

Risk  new-found  happiness  again, 

Trust  fate  of  arms  once  more  ? 
And  is  there  not  a  humble  glen, 

Where  we,  content  and  poor, 
Might  build  a  cottage  in  the  shade, 
A  shepherd  thou,  and  I  to  aid 

Thy  task  on  dale  and  moor?  — 
That  reddening  brow!  —  too  well  I  know 
Not  even  thy  Clare  can  peace  bestow, 

While  falsehood  stains  thy  name: 
Go  then  to  fight!  Clare  bids  thee  go! 
Clare  can  a  warrior's  feelings  know, 

And  weep  a  warrior's  shame ; 
Can  Red  Earl  Gilbert's  spirit  feel, 
Buckle  the  spurs  upon  thy  heel. 
And  belt  thee  with  thy  brand  of  steel, 
And  send  thee  forth  to  fame!"  — 


That  night,  upon  the  rocks  and  bay, 
The  midnight  moonbeam  slumbering  lay, 
And  poured  its  silver  light,  and  pure. 
Through  loop-hole  and  through  embrazure, 

Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall; 
But  chief  where  arched  windows  wide 
Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride, 

The  sober  glances  fall. 


MARMION.  Ste3 

Much  was  there  need ;  though,  seamed  with  scars, 
Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars, 

Though  two  gray  priests  were  there, 
And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high, 
You  could  not  by  their  blaze  descry 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 

Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light. 
Checkering  the  silvery  moonshine  bright, 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood, 

A  noble  lord  of  Douglas  blood. 
With  mitre  sheen  and  rocquet  white; 

Yet  showed  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 

But  little  pride  of  prelacy: 

More  pleased  that,  in  a  barbarous  age, 

He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page. 
Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 
The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld. 
Beside  him  ancient  Angus  stood. 
Doffed  his  furred  gown  and  sable  hood: 
O'er  his  huge  form,  and  visage  pale. 
He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail; 
And  leaned  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 
Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand. 
Which  wont,  of  yore,  in  battle-fray. 
His  foeman's  limbs  to  shred  away, 
As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. 
He  seemed  as,  from  the  tombs  around 

Rising  at  judgment-day, 
Some  giant  Douglas  may  be  found 

In  all  his  old  array; 
So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb, 
So  old  his  ariAs,  his  look  so  grim. 


584  MARMION. 

Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels, 
And  Clare  the  spurs  bound  on  his  heels ; 
And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt, 
At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt! 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue, 
While  fastening  to  her  lover's  side 
A  friend,  which,  though  in  danger  tried, 

He  once  had  found  untrue ! 
Then  Douglas  struck  him  with  his  blade: 
"Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Andrew  aid, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 
Arise,  Sir  Ralph,  De  Wilton's  heir! 
For  king,  for  church,  for  lady  fair, 

See  that  thou  fight."  — 
And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose, 
Said,  —  "Wilton!  grieve  not  for  thy  woes, 

Disgrace,  and  trouble ; 
For  He,  who  honor  best  bestows. 

May  give  thee  double."  — 
De  Wilton  sobbed,  for  sob  he  must  — 
"Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust 

That  Douglas  is  my  brother!"  — 
"Nay,  nay,"  old  Angus  said,  "not  so; 
To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go, 

Thy  wrongs  no  longer  smother. 
I  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field; 
And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield. 
Upon  them  bravely  —  do  thy  worst; 
And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first!" 


Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day, 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 


MARMION.  285 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride ; 

He  had  safe-conduct  for  his  band, 

Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand, 
WVnd  Douglas  gave  a  guide : 

The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace. 

Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 

And  whispered,  in  an  under  tone, 

"Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown." 

The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew; 

But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu :  — 
"Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 
While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  staid ; 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand."  — 

But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 

Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :  — 
"My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers,  shall  still 
Be  open  at  my  sovereign's  will. 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone. 
From  turret  to  foundation-stone  — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own ; 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire. 

And  — "This  to  me!"  he  said, -— 
"An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard. 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Dougflas'  head ! 


286  MARMION. 

And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  Peer, 
He,  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate:     « 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here. 

Even  m  thy  pitch  of  pride, 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied ! 
And  if  thou  said'st,  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied!"  — 
On  the  Earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercarae  the  ashen  hue  of  age : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth :  —  "  And  dar'st  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And  hop'st  thou  hence  unscatched  to  go?  — 
No,  by  Saint  Bryde  of  Bothwell,  no!  — 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms  —  what.  Warder  ho  ! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall."  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned,  —  well  was  his  need, 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed, 
Like  arrow  through  the  arch-way  sprung, 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung: 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise ; 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim:  I 


MARMION.  287 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reached  his  band, 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 
"  Horse !    horse  ! "   the  Dougleis  cried,  "  and 

chase ! " 
But  soon  he  reigned  his  fury's  pace : 
"  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 
Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. — 
A  letter  forged !  Saint  Jude  to  speed ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed ! 
At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill, 
When  the  King  praised  his  clerkly  skill, 
Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line : 
So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still, 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill.  — 
Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 
I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood.   - 
'Tis  pity  of  him,  too,"  he  cried; 
"Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride: 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried."  — 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls. 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

The  day  in  Marmion's  journey  wore ; 
Yet,  ere  his  passion's  gust  was  o'er, 
They  crossed  the  heights  of  Stanrigg-moor. 
His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scanned, 
And  missed  the  Palmer  from  the  band. — 
"  Palmer  or  not,"  young  Blount  did  say, 
"  He  parted  at  the  peep  of  day ; 
Good  sooth  it  was  in  strange  array."  i 


MARMION. 

"  In  what  array  ?  "  said  Marmion,  quick. 
"My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick; 
But  all  night  long,  with  clink  and  bang, 
Close  to  ray  couch  did  hammers  clang; 
At  dawn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang, 
And  from  a  loop-hole  while  I  peep, 
Old  Bell-the-Cat  came  from  the  Keep, 
Wrapped  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair, 
As  fearful  of  the  morning  air ; 
Beneath,  when  that  was  blown  aside, 
A  rusty  shirt  of  mail  I  spied, 
By  Archibald  won  in  bloody  work, 
Against  the  Saracen  and  Turk: 
Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall:      ^ 
I  thought  some  marvel  would  befall. 
And  next  I  saw  them  saddled  lead 
Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  Earl's  best  steed; 
A  matchless  horse,  though  something  old, 
Prompt  to  his  paces,  cool  and  bold. 
I  heard  tlie  Sheriff  Sholto  say. 
The  Earl  did  much  the  Master  pray 
To  use  him  on  the  battle-day  ; 
But  he  preferred  "  —  "  Nay,  Henry,  cease  ! 
Thou  sworn  horse-courser,  hold  thy  peace. 
Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain  —  I  pray, 
What  did  Blount  see  at  break  of  day?"  — 

"In  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried 
(For  I  then  stood  by  Henry's  side) 
The  Palmer  mount,  and  outwards  ride. 
Upon  the  Earl's  own  favorite  steed ; 
All  sheathed  he  was  in  armor  bright, 
And  much  resembled  that  same  knight 
Subdued  by  you  in  Cotswold  fight; 


MARMiojy.  960 

Lord  Angus  wished  him  speed."  — 
The  instant  that  Fitz-Eustace  spoke, 
A  sudden  light  on  Marraion  broke ;  — 
"Ah!  dastard  fool,  to  reason  lost!" 
He  muttered;  "'Twas  not  fay  nor  ghost 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  wold. 
But  living  man  of  earthly  mould.  — 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross ! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  Wilton  in  the  dust, 

My  path  no  more  to  cross. — 
How  stand  we  now  ?  —  he  told  his  tale 
To  Douglas;  and  with  some  avail; 

'Twas  therefore  gloomed  his  rugged  brow. — 
Will  Surrey  dare  to  entertain 
'Gainst  Marmion,  charge  disproved  and  vain? 

Small  risk  of  that  I  trow. — 
Yet  Clare's  sharp  questions  must  I  shun; 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  Nun  — 

(O  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave,         I 
When  first  we  practice  to  deceive. —  « 
A  Palmer  too!  —  no  wonder  why 
I  felt  rebuked  beneath  his  eye: 
I  might  have  known  there  was  but  one, 
Whose  look  could  quell  Lord  Marmion." 

Stung  with  these  thoughts,  he  urged  to  speed 
His  troop,  and  reached,  at  eve,  the  Tweed, 
Where  Lennel's  convent  closed  their  march. 
(There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch, 

Yet  mourn  thou  not  its  cells ; 
Our  time  a  fair  exchange  has  made ; 
Hard  by,  in  hospitable  shade, 

A  reverend  pilgrim  dwells, 

25 


290 


Well  worth  the  whole  Bernardine  brood, 
That  e'er  wore  sandal,  frock,  or  hood.) 
Yet  did  Saint  Bernard's  Abbot  there 
Give  Marmion  entertainment  fair, 
And  lodging  for  his  train  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  Baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamped  on  Flodden  edge: 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show, 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow, 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marmion  looked :  —  at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines : 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears,  ! 

For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears,  \ 

'  The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending, 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending. 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending, 
The  skillful  Marmion  well  could  know 
They  watched  the  motions  of  some  foe, 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 


Even  so  it  was:  —  from  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  poet, 
And,  heedful,  watched  them  as  they  crossed 

The  Till  by  Twiseil  bridge. 

High  sight  it  is,  and  haughty,  while 
They  dive  into  the  deep  defile; 
Beneath  the  caverned  cliS"  they  fall, 
Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 


MARMION.  291 

By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn  tree, 
Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing; 
Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing, 

Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den, 

Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  dim-wood  glen. 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march. 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet-clang 
Twisel !  thy  rocks  deep  echo  rang ; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly. 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now. 
Dark  Flodden!  on  thy  airy  brow. 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while, 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile  ? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James  ? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  Dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees,  between  him  and  his  IsCnd, 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand, 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead  ? 
What  vails  the  vain  knight-errant's  brand?  — 
O,  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed! 


299  MARBIIOIi. 

O  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight, 
Or  well  skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight, 
And  cry  —  "Saint  Andrew  and  our  right!" 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn. 
From  Fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn, 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannock-boume !  — 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain ; 
Wheeling  their  march,  and  circling  still. 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden-hill. 

Ere  yet  the  bands  metJVIarmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace  shouted  loud  and  high,  — 
"  Hark !  hark !  my  lord,  an  English  drum ! 
And  see  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill. 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon ;  —  hap  what  hap, 
My  basnet  to  a  'prentice  cap. 

Lord  Surrey's  o'er  the  Till ! — 
Yet  more  !  yet  more  !  —  how  fair  arrayed 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade. 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by! 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread. 

And  all  their  armor  flashing  high. 
Saint  George  might  waken  from  the  dead, 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly."  — 
"  Stint  in  thy  prate,"  quoth  Blount ;  "  thou'dst  best, 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest."  — 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Marmion  said, — 
"  This  instant  be  our  band  arrayed ; 
The  river  must  be  quickly  crossed, 
That  we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fight  King  James,  —  as  well  I  trust. 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must, — 


MARMION. 


The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  lines 
Shall  tarry,  while  the  battle  joins. 


Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw, 
Scarce  to  the  Abbot  bid  adieu: 
Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer, 
To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew, 
And  muttered,  as  the  flood  they  view, 
"The  pheasant  in  the  falcon's  claw. 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw: 
Lord  Angus  may  the  Abbot  awe, 

So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me." 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford,  and  deep, 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leat's  eddies  creep, 

He  ventured  desperately : 
And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide. 
Till  squire,  or  groom,  before  him  ride  ; 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide, 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse. 

Old  Herbert  held  her  rein. 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course. 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  perforce. 

The  southern  bank  they  gain ; 
Behind  them,  straggling,  came  to  shore. 

As  best  they  might,  the  train : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore, 

A  caution  not  in  vain  ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string. 
By  wet  unharmed,  should  sharply  ring. 
A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  staid. 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  arrayed, 

25* 


294  MARMION. 

Then  forward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  by  a  cross  of  stone. 
That,  on  a  hillock  standing  lone. 

Did  all  the  field  command. 


Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 

Of  either  host,  or  deadly  fray; 

Their  marshalled  lines  stretched  east  and  west, 

And  fronted  north  and  south. 
And  distant  salutation  past 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle. 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle. 

But  slow  and  far  between. — 


The  hillock  gained,  L'ord  Marmion  staid: 
"Here,  by  this  cross,  he  gently  said, 

"You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare: 
O!  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer!  — 
Thou  wilt  not?  —  well,  —  no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare. — 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain.  — 
But,  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid! 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid. 

When  here  we  meet  again."  — 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there, 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair. 


MARMION. 


995 


Nor  heed  tlie  discontented  look 
From  either  squire;  but  spurred  amain, 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle-plain, 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

« The  good  Lord  Marmion,  by  my  life! 

Welcome  to  danger's  hour! 
Short  greeting  serves  in  time  of  strife:  — 

Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power: 
Myself  will  rule  this  central  host. 

Stout  Stanly  fronts  their  right, 
My  sons  command  the  vaward  post, 

With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight; 

Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light. 

Shall  be  in  rearward  of  the  fight, 
And  succor  those  that  need  it  most. 

Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know. 

Would  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go; 
Edmund,' the  Admiral,  Tunstall  there. 
With  thee  their  charge  will  blithely  share; 
There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too. 
Beneath  De  Burg,  thy  steward  true."  — 
"  Thanks,  noble  Surrey  ! "  Marmion  said, 
Nor  further  greeting  there  he  paid; 
But,  parting  like  a  thunderbolt, 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt. 

Where  such  a  shout  there  rose 
Of  "  Marmion !  Marmion !  "  that  the  cry 
Up  Flodden  mountains  shrilling  high, 

Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill ; 


296  MARMION. 

On  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent) 
The  western  sunbeams  now  were  bent 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew, 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view; 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay  f 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day. — 
But,  see!  look  up  —  on'Flodden  bent, 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent"  — 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke: 
Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far. 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone, 
Announced  their  march ;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown. 

At  times  a  stifled  hum. 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come. — 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes. 
Until  at  weapon-point  they  close. — 
They  close,  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway  and  with  lance's  thrust; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there, 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth. 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 

And  fiends  in  upper  air. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires ;  their  eye 
Could  in  the  darkness  naught  descry. 
At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast; 


MARMION.  297 

And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 

Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears; 

And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew,  ^ 

As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 

Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 

The  broken  billows  of  the  war. 

And  plumed  crests  of  chieftains  brave. 

Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave; 

But  naught  distinct  they  see ;         ., 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flashed  amain 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly: 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white. 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright. 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight; 

Although  against  them  come, 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one. 
And  many  a  stubborn  Highlandman, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan. 

With  Huntley,  and  with  Home. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle ; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied: 
'Twas  vain.  —  But  Fortune,  on  the  right. 
With  fickle  smile,  cheered  Scotland's  fight 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white. 


MARMION. 

The  Howard's  lion  fell: 
Yet  still  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle  yell. 
The  border  slogan  rent  the  sky ! 
A  Home !  a  Gordon !  was  the  cry ; 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows ; 
Advanced,  —  forced  back,  —  now  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear:  — 
"By  heaven,  and  all  its  saints!  I  swear, 

I  will  not  see  it  lost! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads,  and  patter  prayer, — 

I  gallop  to  the  host" 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain. 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge, 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large,  — 

The  rescued  banner  rose. 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around. 
Like  pine-tree,  rooted  from  the  ground, 

It  sunk  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too  ;  —  yet  staid. 
As  loth  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread, 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head. 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red. 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by; 


299 


And  Eustace,  maddening^  at  the  sight, 
A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast, 
To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 

Then  plunged  into  the  fight 


Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 

Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone: 
Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels ; 

Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own, 

Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone. — 
The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels ; 

She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 

The  tumult  roared,  "Is  Wilton  there?**  — 

They  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair. 

Fight  but  to  die.  —  "  Is  Wilton  there  ?  "  — 
With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 

Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore. 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand ; 
His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand: 
Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 
With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcon-crest  and*  plumage  gone, 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion ! . . . . 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 

Said  —  "  By  Saint  George,  he's  gone ! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped. 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head ! 

Good  night  to  Marmion."  — 
"  Unnurtured  Blount !  —  thy  brawling  cease  : 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace  ;  "  peace  !  "  — 


300  MARMION. 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air. 
Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare:  — 
"Where's  Harry  Blount?  Fitz-Eustace  where? 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare ! 
Redeem  my  pennon,  —  charge  again! 
Cry  — '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! '  —  Vain ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  battle  plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again!  — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's :  — fly. 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring; 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie: 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field; 
His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield  j 
Edmund  is  down;  —  my  life  is  reft;  — 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host. 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost.— 
Must  I  bid  twice  ?  —  hence,  varlets !  fly  ! 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die."  — 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay; 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away. 
Till  pain  wrung  forth  n  lowly  moan, 
And  half  he  murmured,  —  "Is  there  none, 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst. 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water,  from  the  spring. 
To  slake  my  dying  thu^t!"  — 


O,  woman!  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 


MARMION.  301 

■^nd  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran: 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears : 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side, 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew, 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain  wide, 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
.  Where  shall  she  turn !  —  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain-cell. 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 
♦'IBrfnft.  toearg.  pflijrfm.  trrfnfe.  anU  praj. 
iFor.  tt)e.  fefntr.  soul.  of.  S^M,  ©ftej. 

858^1)0.  ftuflt.  t|)fs.  cross.  anTi  toell." 
She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  Monk  supporting  Marmion's  head ; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought. 

To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave  — 
"Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 
"Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head!" 


302  MARMION. 

Then,"  as  remembrance  rose,  —  i 

"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer  !- 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare, 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  ! "  — 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said,  "  the  while,  — 
O  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She died  at  Holy  Isle."  — 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground, 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound ; 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide, 
In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 
"Then  it  was  truth!"— he  said  — "I  knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. 

I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 

The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs. 
Would  spare  me  but  a  day! 

For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan. 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 
Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  !  —  this  dizzy  trance  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance. 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand."  — 
Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk. 
Supported  by  the  trembling  Monk. 


With  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound. 

And  strove  to  staunch,  the  gushing  wound:  i 

The  Monk,  with  unavailing  cares,  | 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers; 


MARMION.  308 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear. 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear. 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"/n  the  lost  hattle,  home  down  by  the  fyingf 
Where  mingles  war^s  rattle  toith  groans  of  the 
dying ! " 

So  the  notes  rung; 
"Avoid  thee,  Fiend!  —  with  cruel  hand, 
Shake  not  the  dying-  sinner's  sand !  — 
O  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine; 

O  think  on  faith  and  bliss !  — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen. 

But  never  aught  like  this."  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail. 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale. 

And  —  Stanley!  was  the  cry;  — 
A  light  on  Marm  ion's  visage  spread. 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye; 
With  dying  hand,  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade. 

And  shouted  "  Victory !  — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge !  On,  Stanley,  on ! " 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 


By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell, 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell. 
For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  king, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing, 


304  MARMION. 

Where  Huntley,  and  where  Home?  — 
O  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come. 
When  Rowland  brave,  and  OliVfer, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer. 

On  Roncesvalles  died ! 
Such  blast  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain. 
To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slain. 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again, 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side, 
Afar,  the  Royal  Standard  flies, 
And  round  it  toils  and  bleeds  and  dies, 

Our  Caledonian  pride ! 
In  vain  the  wish  —  for  far  away, 
While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way. 
Near  Sybil's  Cross  the  plunderers  stray. - 
«  O  Lady,"  cried  the  Monk,  "  away  !  "  — 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed ; 
And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair, 

Of  Tilraouth  upon  Tweed 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer. 
And,  at  the  dawn  of  morning,  tiiere 
She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 


But  as  they  left  the  dark'ning  heath. 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed. 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed: 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep. 
That  fought  around  their  king. 


MARMION.  305 

But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow, 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go, 
Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring ; 
The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood. 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 
No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight;  — 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight, 

As  fearlessly  and  well: 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 
Then  skillful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands ; 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain-waves,  from  wasted  lands, 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know, 
Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest  low, 
They  melted  from  the  field  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow. 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash. 
While  many  a  broken  band. 
Disordered,  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale. 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale, 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song, 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong; 
26* 


I 

i 

306 


Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife,  and  carnage  drear, 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field, 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear. 

And  broken  was  her  shield ! 

Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side:  — 
There,  Scotland !  lay  thy  bravest  pride. 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one; 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone.  — 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully. 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be: 
Nor  to  yon  Border  castle  high 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye: 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain. 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand, 
The  Royal  Pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 
He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought;    . 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain: 
And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand. 
Firm  clenched  within  his  manly  hand. 

Beseemed  the  monarch  slain. 
But,  O  !  how  changed  since  yon  blythe  night ! 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight 

Unto  my  tale  again. 

Short  is  ray  tale:  —  Fitz-Eustace'  care 
A  pierced  and  mangled  body  bare 
To  moated  Lichfield's  lofty  pile; 
And  there,  beneath  the  southern  aisle, 
A  tomb,  with  Gothic  sculpture  fair. 
Did  long  Lord  Marmion's  image  bear. 


MARMION. 


(Now  vainly  for  its  site  you  look; 

'Twas  levelled,  when  fanatic  Brook 

The  fair  cathedral  stormed  and  took; 

But,  thanks  to  heaven  and  good  Saint  Chad, 

A  guerdon  meet  the  spoiler  had!) 

There  erst  was  martial  Marmion  found, 

His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound, 

His  hands  to  heaven  upraised ; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich, 
And  tablet  carved,  and  fretted  niche, 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed. 
And  yet,  though  all  was  carved  so  fair. 
And  priests  for  Marmion  breathed  the  prayer, 
The  last  Lord  Marmion  lay  not  there. 
From  Ettrick  woods,  a  peasant  swain 
Followed  his  lord  to  Flodden  plain, — 
One  of  those  flowers,  whom  plaintive  lay 
In  Scotland  mourns  as  "  wede  away : " 
Sore  wounded,  Sybil's  Cross  he  spied, 
And  dragged  him  to  its  foot,  and  died, 
Close  by  the  noble  Marmion's  side. 
The  spoilers  stripped  and  gashed  the  slain. 
And  thus  their  corpses  were  mista'en ; 
And  thus,  in  the  proud  Baron's  tomb,  \ 
The  lowly  woodsman  took  the  room.      \ 


Less  easy  task  it  were,  to  show 
Lord  Marmion's  nameless  grave,  and  low. 
They  dug  his  grave  e'en  where  he  lay, 

But  every  mark  is  gone  ; 
Time's  wasting  hand  has  done  away 
The  simple  Cross  of  Sybil  Grey, 
And  broke  her  font  of  stone : 


308 


But  yet  from  out  the  little  hill 
Oozes  the  slender  springlet  still. 

Oft  halts  the  stranger  there, 
For  thence  may  best  his  curious  eye 
The  memorable  field  descry; 
And  shepherd  boys  repair 
To  seek  the  water-flag  and  rush, 
And  rest  them  by  the  hazel-bush. 

And  plait  their  garlands  fair; 
Nor  dream  they  sit  upon  the  grave 
That  holds  the  bones  of  Marmion  brave.' 
When  thou  shalt  find  the  little  hill, 
With  thy  heart  commune,  and  be  still. 
If  ever,  in  temptation  strong. 
Thou  left'st  the  right  patli  for  the  wrong; 
If  every  devious  step,  thus  trode. 
Still  led  thee  farther  from  the  road; 
Dread  thou  to  speak  presumptuous  doom 
On  noble  Marmion's  lowly  tomb  ; 
But  say,  "He  died  a  gallant  knight, 
With  sword  in  hand,  for  England's  right** 

I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf. 

Who  cannot  image  to  himself. 

That  all  through  Flodden's  dismal  night, 

Wilton  was  foremost  in  the  fight; 

That,  when  brave  Surrey's  steed  was  slain, 

'Twas  Wilton  mounted  him  again; 

'Twas  Wilton's  brand  that  deepest  hewed 

Amid  the  spearman's  stubborn  wood; 

Unnamed  by  Hollinshed  or  Hall, 

He  was  the  living  soul  of  all; 

That,  after  fight,  his  faith  made  plain, 

He  won  his  rank  and  lands  again; 


MARMION.  ,    ^fff 

And  charged  his  old  paternal  shield 

With  bearings  won  on  Flodden  field. — 

Nor  sing  I  to  that  simple  maid, 

To  whom  it  must  in  terms  be  said, 

That  king  and  kinsmen  did  agree, 

To  bless  fair  Clara's  constancy; 

Who  cannot,  unless  I  relate. 

Paint  to  her  mind  the  bridal's  state ; 

That  Wolsey's  voice  the  blessing  spoke. 

More,  Sands,  and  Denny,  passed  the  joke : 

That  bluff  King  Hal  the  curtam  drew. 

And  Catherine's  hand  the  stocking  threw; 

And  afterwards,  for  many  a  day. 

That  it  was  held  enough  to  say. 

In  blessing  to  a  wedded  pair, 

"Love  they  like  Wilton  and  like  Clare!" 


L'ENVOY. 

TO    THE    READER. 


i 

\1 


Why  then  a  final  note  prolong, 

Or  lengthen  out  a  closing  song. 

Unless  to  bid  the  gentles  speed. 

Who  long  have  listed  to  my  rede? 

To  statesmen  grave,  if  such  may  deign 

To  read  the  Minstrel's  idle  strain, 

Sound  head,  clean  hand,  and  piercing  wit, 

And  patriotic  heart  —  as  Pitt! 

A  garland  for  the  hero's  crest. 

And  twined  by  her  he  loves  the  best; 

To  every  lovely  lady  bright. 

What  can  I  wish  but  faithful  knight? 


310 


MARMION. 


To  every  faithful  lover  too, 

What  can  I  wish  but  lady  true  ? 

And  knowledge  to  the  studious  sage; 

And  pillow  soft  to  head  of  age. 

To  thee,  dear  schoolboy,  whom  my  lay 

Has  cheated  of  thy  hour  of  play, 

Light  task,  and  merry  holiday ! 

To  all,  to  each,  a  fair  good  night, 

And  pleasing  dreams,  and  slumbers  light! 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   LAKE. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE, 


CANTO  FIRST. 


THE   CHASE. 

Harp  of  the  North  !  that  mouldering  long  hast  hung 
On  the  witch-elm  that  shades  Saint  Fillan's  spring, 

And  down  the  fittul  breeze  thy  numbers  flung, 
Till  envious  ivy  did  around  thee  cling. 
Muffling  with  \erdant  ringlet  every  string  — 

Oh  minstrel  Harp  .'  still  must  thine  accents  sleep  ? 
Mid  rustling  leaves  and  fountains  murmuring, 

Still  must  tliy  sweeter  sounds  their  silence  keep. 

Nor  bid  a  warrior  smile,  nor  teach  a  maid  to  weep  ? 

Not  thus,  in  ancient  days  of  Caledon, 

Was  thy  voice  mute  amid  the  festal  crowd, 
When  lay  of  hopeless  love,  or  glory  won, 

Aroused  the  fearful,  or  subdued  the  proud. 

At  each  according  pause,  was  heard  aloud 
Thine  ardent  symphony  sublime  and  high  ! 

Fair  dames  and  crested  chiefs  attention  bowed  ; 
For  still  the  burthen  of  thy  minstrelsy 
Was  Knighthood's  dauntless  deed,  and  Beauty's  match- 
less eye. 

27 


314  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Oh  wake  once  more  !  how  rude  soe'er  the  hand 

That  ventures  o'er  thy  magic  maze  to  stray ; 
Oh  wake  once  more  !  though  scarce  my  skill  command 

Some  feeble  echoing  of  thine  earlier  lay  ; 

Though  harsh  and  faint,  and  soon  to  die  away, 
And  all  unworthy  of  thy  nobler  strain, 

Yet  if  one  heart  throb  higher  at  its  sway, 
The  wizard  note  has  not  been  touched  in  vain. 
Then  silent  be  no  more  !  Enchantress,  wake  again. 

The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill. 

Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  rill, 

And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 

In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade ; 

But,  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 

Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head. 

The  deep-mouthed  bloodhound's  heavy  bay 

Resounded  up  the  rocky  way. 

And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne. 

Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 

As  chief  who  hears  his  warder  call 

"  To  arms  !  the  foemen  storm  the  wall !  " 

The  antlered  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprang  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But,  ere  his  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high. 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry, 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh  : 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  31ft 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared, 
With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared, 
And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far, 
Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  pack  — 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern  paid  them  back ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
The  awakened  mountain  gave  response. 
An  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 
Clattered  an  hundred  steeds  along. 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rang  out. 
An  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout 
With  hark,  and  whoop,  and  wild  halloo. 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe,^ 
Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe, 
/  ^^^'Thejfalcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high, 
-"^    Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye. 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken, 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn. 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still. 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
Disturbed  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 
And  roused  the  cavern  where  'tis  told 
A  giant  made  his  den  of  old; 
For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won, 
High  in  the  pathway  hung  the  sun. 
And  many  a  gallant,  stayed  perforce. 
Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse; 


316  THE   LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And  of  the  trackers  of  the  deer 
Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near; 
So  shrewdly,  on  the  mountain  side, 
Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 

/      The  noble  Stag  was  pausing  now 
*"'      Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended  far  beneath, 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wandered  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor, 
And  pondered  refuge  from  his  toil, 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copsewood  gray 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine-trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Ben-venue. 
Fresh  vigor  with  the  hope  returned  — • 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurned, 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race, 
And  lefl  behind  the  panting  chase. 

'Twere  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er, 
*  ^      As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambus-more  ; 
What  reins  were  tightened  in  despair, 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air; 
Who  flagged  upon  Bochastle's  heath, 
Who  shunned  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith  — 
For  twice,  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore. 
The  gallant  Stag  swam  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far. 
That  reached  the  lake  of  Vennachar; 
And  when  the  Brig  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  Horseman  rode  alone. 


THE    LACY    OF    THE   LAKE.  317 

^  Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal, 

That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel; 
For,  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil, 
Embossed  with  foam,  and  dark  with  soil. 
While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew, 
The  laboring  Stag  strained  jjill-ift 'view.' 
Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed, 
Unmatched  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed, 
Fasit  on  his jaj;iiig  tracest-eame. 
And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game ; 
For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch. 
Vindictive  toiled  the  bloodhounds  staunch; 
Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain. 
Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain, 
Thus  up  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
Between  the  precipice  and  brake. 
O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

(^       The  hunter  marked  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary. 
And  deemed  the  Stag  must  turn  to  bay. 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barred  the  way; 
Already  glorying  in  the  prize. 
Measured  his  antlers  with  his  eyes; 
For  the  death-wound,  and  death-halloo, 
Mustered  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew; 
But,  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared, 
The  wily  quarry  shunned  the  shqck^. 
And  turned  him  from  the  opposing  rock; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen. 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken, 
In  the  deep  Trosaciis'  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 


318  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

There  while,  close  couched,  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head, 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 

Chiding  the  rocks  that  yelled  again. 


1 


To  cheer  them  on  the  vanished  game; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell, 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
The  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein, 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labors  o'er. 
Stretched  his  stiff  limbs,  to  rise  no  more. 
Then,  touched  with  pity  and  remorse. 
Reborrowed  o'er  the  expuring  horse:  — 
«I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slacked  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed! 
Wo  worth  the  chase,  wo  worth  the  day, 
That  cost  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray!"    / 

Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  jesounds. 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Back  limbed,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace. 
The  sufky  leaders  of  the  chase: 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  pressed. 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollowjhroat 
Prolonged  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream. 
The  eagles  answered  with  their  scream. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  319 

Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast, 
Till  echo  seemed  an  answering  blast ; 
And  on  the  hunter  hied  his  way, 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day ; 
Yet  oftenpaused,  so  strange  the  road, 
So  wonHrous  were  the  scenes  it  showed. 


/^ 


The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Rolled  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way ; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire. 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below. 
Where  twined  the  path,  in  shadow  hid, 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid, 
Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle  ; 
Round  many  an  insulated  mass. 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass. 
Huge  as  the  tower  which  builders  vain 
Presumptuons  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
Their  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent. 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret, 
Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked. 
Or  mosque  of  eastern  architect. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair ; 
For,  from  their  shivered  brows  displayed, 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade, 
All  twinkling  with  the  dew-drop  sheen, 
The  briar-rose  fell  in  streamers  green. 


320  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

And  creeping  shrubs  of  thousand  dyes, 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer  sighs. 

Boon  nature  scattei-ed,  free  and  wild, 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalmed  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there ; 
The  primrose  pale,  and  violet  flower, 
Found  in  each  clift  a  narrow  bower ; 
Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by  side, 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride. 
Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain ; 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath, 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath ; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock ; 
And  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shattered  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
Where  seemed  the  clifis  to  meet  on  high, 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrowed  sky  ; 
Highest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced, 
Where  glistening  streamers  waved  and  danced, 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue  ; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 

Onward,  amid  tjie  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet  still  and  deep. 
Affording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim 
As  served  the  wild  duck's  brood  to  swim ; 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veering, 
But  broader  when  again  appearing, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  331 

Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace ; 
And  farther  as  the  hunter  strayed, 
Still  broader  sweep  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood, 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 
But,  wave-encircled,  seemed  to  float, 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still, 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill, 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 


And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen. 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 

Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 

A  far-projecting  precipice. 

The  broom's  tough  roots  his  ladder  made, 

The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid ; 

And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won. 

Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 

One  burnished  sheet  of  living  gold, 

Loch-Katrine  lay  beneath  him  rolled; 

In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay. 

With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay. 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright, 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light; 

And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand. 

To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Ben-venue 

Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurled, 

The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world ; 


332  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

A  wildering  forest  feathered  o'er 
His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar, 
While  on  the  north,  through  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 

From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 

The  Stranger,  raptured  and  amazed; 

And,  "What  a  scene  was  here,"  he  cried, 

"For  princely  pomp  or  churchman's  pride! 

On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower; 

In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower; 

On  yonder  meadow,  far  away, 

The  turrets  of  a  cloister  gray. 

How  blithely  might  the  bugle-horn 

Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn! 

How  sweet,  at  eve,  the  lover's  lute 

Chime,  when  the  groves  were  still  and  mute ! 

And,  when  the  midnight  moon  should  lave 

Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave, 

How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 

The  holy  matin's  distant  hum, 

While  the  deep  peal's  commanding  tone 

Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone, 

A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell. 

To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell!  — 

And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all, 

Should  each  bewildered  stranger  call 

To  friendly  feast  and  lighted  hall. 

"  Blithe  were  it  then  to  wander  here ! 
But  now  —  beshrew  yon  nimble  deer  !  — 
Like  that  same  hermit's,  thin  and  spare, 
The  copse  must  give  my  evening  fare; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Some  mossy  bank  my  couch  must  be, 
Some  rustling  oak  my  canopy. 
Yet  pass  we  that  —  the  war  and  chase 
Give  little  choice  of  resting'-plEice ;  — 
A  summer  night,  in  greenwood  spent, 
Were  but  to-morrow's  merriment ; 
But  hosts  may  in  these  wilds  abound, 
Such  as  are  better  missed  than  found ; 
To  meet  with  highland  plunderers  here, 
Were  worse  than  loss  of  steed  or  deer 
I  am  alone;  —  my  bugle  strain 
May  call  some  straggler  of  the  train ; 
Or,  fall  the  worst  that  may  betide. 
Ere  now  this  falchion  has  been  tried.** 


But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wound, 

When  lo !  forth  starting  at  the  sound. 

From  underneath  an  aged  oak, 

That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 

A  damsel,  guider  of  its  way, 

A  little  skiff  shot  to  the  bay, 

That  round  the  promontory  steep 

Led  its  deep  line  in  graceful  sweep, 

Eddying,  in  almost  viewless  wave, 

The  weeping  willow-twig  to  lave ; 

And  kiss,  with  whispering  sound  and  slow, 

The  beach  of  pebbles  bright  as  snow. 

The  boat  had  touched  this  silver  strand. 

Just  as  the  huuter  left  his  stand. 

And  stood  concealed  amid  the  brake, 

To  view  this  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 

She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain, 


324  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

With  head  upraised,  and  look  intent, 
And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent, 
And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart, 
Like  monument  of  Grecian  art 
In  listening  mood,  she  seemed  to  stand 
The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 

A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 

Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face ! 

What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown, 

Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown  — 

The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and  light, 

Had  dyed  her  glowing  hue  so  bright, 

Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 

Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow ; 

What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 

To  measured  mood  had  trained  her  pace  — 

A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true, 

Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dashed  the  dew; 

E'en  the  slight  hare-bell  raised  its  head. 

Elastic  from  her  airy  tread : 

What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 

The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue  — 

Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  dear. 

The  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear. 

A  chieftain's  daughter  seemed  the  maid; 

Her  satin  snood,  her  silken  plaid, 

Her  golden  brooch,  such  birth  betrayed. 

And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 

Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid, 

Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 

The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing; 


THE   LADY    OF    THE    LAKE  3SK» 

And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair, 
Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care, 
And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 
Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 
Her  kindness  and  her  worth  to  spy, 
You  need  but  gaze  on  Ellen's  eye; 
Not  Katrine,  in  her  mirror  blue. 
Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true, 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confessed 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast; 
Whether  joy  danced  in  her  dark  eye. 
Or  wo  or  pity  claimed  a  sigh, 
Or  filial  love  was  glowing  there, 
Or  meek  devotion  poured  a  prayer, 
Or  tale  of  injury  called  forth 
The  indignant  spirit  of  the  north. 
One  only  passion,  unrevealed, 
With  maiden  pride  the  maid  concealed, 
Yet  not  less  purely  felt  the  flame;  — 
Oh  need  I  tell  that  passion's  name  ? 


Impatient  of  the  silent  horn. 
Now  on  the  gale  her  voice  was  borne:  — 
"  Father !  "  she  cried  —  the  rocks  around 
Loved  to  prolong  the  gentle  sound. 
Awhile  she  paused,  no  answer  came  — 


resolutely  uttered  fell. 
The  echoes  could  not  catch  the  swell. 
"A  stranger  I,"  the  Huntsman  said. 
Advancing  from  the  hazel  shade. 
The  maid  alarmed,  with  hasty  oar, 
Pushed  her  light  shallop  from  the  shore. 


v; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And,  when  a  space  was  gained  between, 
Closer  she  drew  her  bosom's  screen ; 
(So  forth  the  startled  swan  would  swing. 
So  turn  to  prune  his  ruffled  wing,) 
Then  safe,  though  fluttered  and  amazed. 
She  paused,  and  on  the  stranger  gazed. 
Not  his  the  form,  nor  his  the  eye. 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 

On  his  bold  visage  middle  age 

Had  slightly  pressed  its  signet  sage. 

Yet  had  not  quenched  tlie  open  truth, 

And  fiery  vehemence  of  youth; 

Forward  and  frolic  glee  was  there, 

The  will  to  do,  the  soul  to  dare. 

The  sparkling  glance,  soon  blown  to  fire, 

Of  hasty  love,  or  headlong  ire. 

His  limbs  were  cast  in  manly  mould, 

For  hardy  sports,  or  contest  bold ; 

And  though  in  peaceful  garb  arrayed, 

And  weaponless,  except  his  blade, 

His  stately  mien  as  well  implied 

A  high-born  heart,  a  martial  pride. 

As  if  a  baron's  crest  he  wore. 

And  sheathed  in  armor  trod  the  shore. 

Slighting  the  petty  need  he  showed. 

He  told  of  his  benighted  road : 

His  ready  speech  flowed  fair  and  free. 

In  phrase  of  gentlest  courtesy; 

Yet  seemed  that  tone  and  gesture  bland 

Less  used  to  sue  than  to  command. 

Awhile  the  maid  the  Stranger  eyed, 
And,  reassured,  at  last  replied. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  907 

That  highland  halls  were  open  still 
To  wildered  wanderers  of  the  hill. 
*'  Nor  think  you  unexpected  come 
To  yon  lone  isle,  our  desert  home : 
Before  the  heath  had  lost  the  dew, 
This  morn,  a  couch  was  pulled  for  you ; 
On  yonder  mountain's  purple  head 
Have  ptarmigan  and  heath-cock  bled, 
And  our  broad  nets  have  swept  the  mere. 
To  furnish  forth  your  evening  cheer." 
"Now,  by  the  rood,  my  lovely  maid. 
Your  courtesy  has  erred,"  he  said ; 
"  No  right  have  I  to  claim,  misplaced. 
The  welcome  of  expected  guest. 
A  wanderer,  here  by  fortune  tost, 
My  way,  my  friends,  my  courser  lost, 
I  ne'er  before,  believe  me,  fair. 
Have  ever  drawn  your  mountain  air, 
Till  on  this  lake's  romantic  strand, 
I  found  a  fay  in  fairy  land." 


"I  well  believe,"  the  maid  replied. 
As  her  light  skiff  approached  the  side 
"I  well  believe,  that  ne'er  before 
Your  foot  has  trod  Loch-Katrine's  more 
But  yet,  as  far  as  yesternight, 
Old  Allan-bane  foretold  your  plight  — 
A  gray-haired  sire,  whose  eye  intent 
Was  on  the  visioned  future  bent. 
He  saw  your  steed,  a  dappled  gray. 
Lie  dead  beneath  the  birchen  way ; 
Painted  exact  your  form  and  mien. 
Your  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green, 


328  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

That  tasselled  horn  so  gaily  gilt, 

That  falchion's  crooked  blade  and  hilt, 

That  cap  with  heron's  plumage  trim, 

And  yon  two  hounds  so  dark  and  grim. 

He  bade  that  all  should  ready  be, 

To  grace  a  guest  of  fair  degree  ; 

But  light  I  held  his  prophecy. 

And  deemed  it  was  my  father's  horn. 

Whose  echoes  o'er  the  lake  were  borne." 

The  Stranger  smiled:  —  "Since  to  your  home, 

A  destined  errant-knight  I  come. 

Announced  by  prophet  sooth  and  old, 

Doomed,  doubtless,  for  achievement  bold, 

I'll  lightly  front  each  high  emprize. 

For  one  kind  glance  of  those  bright  eyes ; 

Permit  me,  first,  the  task  to  guide 

Your  fairy  frigate  o'er  the  tide." 

The  maid,  with  smile  suppressed  and  sly, 

The  toil  unwonted  saw  him  try; 

For  seldom,  sure,  if  e'er  before, 

His  noble  hand  had  grasped  an  oar: 

Yet  with  main  strength  his  strokes  he  drew, 

And  o'er  the  lake  the  shallop  flew ; 

With  heads  erect  and  whimpering  cry, 

The  hounds  behind  their  passage  ply. 

Nor  frequent  does  the  bright  oar  break 

The  darkening  mirror  of  the  lake, 

Until  the  rocky  isle  they  reach. 

And  moor  their  shallop  on  the  beach. 

The  Stranger  viewed  the  shore  around ; 
'Twas  all  so  close  with  copse-wood  bound, 
Nor  track  nor  pathway  might  declare 
That  human  foot  frequented  there. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  &  'J 

Until  the  mountain-maiden  showed 
A  clambering  unsuspected  road, 
That  winded  through  the  tangled  screen, 
And  opened  on  a  narrow  green, 
Where  weeping  birch  and  Avillow  round 
With  their  long  fibres  swept  the  ground  ; 
Here,  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour, 
Some  chief  had  framed  a  rustic  bower. 


It  was  a  lodge  of  ample  size, 

But  strange  of  structure  and  device ; 

Of  such  materials,  as  around 

The  workman's  hand  had  readiest  found. 

Lopped  of  their  boughs,  their  hoar  trunks  bared, 

And  by  the  hatchet  rudely  squared, 

To  give  the  walls  their  destined  height, 

The  sturdy  oak  and  ash  unite ; 

While  moss,  and  clay,  and  leaves  combined, 

To  fence  each  crevice  from  the  wind. 

The  lighter  pine-trees,  overhead. 

Their  slender  length  for  rafters  spread, 

And  withered  heath  and  rushes  dry 

Supplied  a  russet  canopy. 

Due  westward,  fronting  to  the  green, 

A  rural  portico  was  seen, 

Aloft  on  native  pillars  borne. 

Of  mountain  fir  with  bark  unshorn. 

Where  Ellen's  hand  had  taught  to  twine 

The  ivy  and  Idsean  vine. 

The  clematis,  the  favored  flower, 

Which  boasts  the  name  of  virgin-bower. 

And  every  hardy  plant  could  bear 

Loch-Katrine's  keen  and  searching  air. 


330  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

An  instant  in  this  porch  she  staid, 
And  gayly  to  the  Stranger  said, 
"On  heaven  and  on  thy  lady  call, 
And  enter  the  enchanted  hall ! " 

"  My  hope,  my  heaven,  my  trust  must  be, 

My  gentle  guide,  in  following  thee." 

He  crossed  the  threshold  —  and  a  clang 

Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang. 

To  his  bold  brow  his  spirit  rushed, 

But  soon  for  vain  alarm  he  blushed. 

When  on  the  floor  he  saw  displayed. 

Cause  of  the  din,  a  naked  blade 

Dropped  from  the  sheath,  that  careless  flung 

Upon  a  stag's  huge  antlers  swung ; 

For,  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace. 

Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase : 

A  target  there,  a  bugle  here, 

A  battle-axe,  a  hunting  spear. 

And  broadswords,  bows,  and  arrows  store, 

With  the  tusked  trophies  of  the  boar. 

Here  grins  the  wolf  as  when  he  died. 

And  there  the  wild-cat's  brindled  hide 

The  frontlet  of  the  elk  adorns. 

Or  mantles  o'er  the  bison's  horns ; 

Pennons  and  flags  defaced  and  stained. 

That  blackening  streaks  of  blood  retained, 

And  deer-skins,  dappled,  dun,  and  white. 

With  otter's  fur  and  seal's  unite. 

In  rude  and  uncouth  tapestry  all, 

To  garnish  forth  the  sylvan  hall. 

The  wondering  Stranger  round  him  gazed, 
And  next  the  fallen  weapon  raised ; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  « 

Few  were  the  arms  whose  sinewy  strength 

Sufficed  to  stretch  it  forth  at  length. 

And  as  the  brand  he  poised  and  swayed, 

"I  never  knew  but  one,"  he  said, 

"Whose  stalwart  arm  might  brook  to  wield 

A  blade  like  this  in  battle-field." 

She  sighed,  then  smiled  and  took  the  word; 

"  You  see  the  guardian  champion's  sword  * 

As  light  it  trembles  in  his  hand. 

As  in  my  grasp  a  hazel  wand; 

My  sire's  tall  form  might  grace  the  part 

Of  Ferragus  or  Ascabart; 

But  in  the  absent  giant's  hold 

Are  women  now  and  menials  old." 


The  mistress  of  the  mansion  came. 

Mature  of  age,  a  graceful  dame; 

Whose  easy  step  and  stately  port 

Had  well  become  a  princely  court. 

To  whom,  though  more  than  kindred  knew, 

Young  Ellen  gave  a  mother's  due. 

Meet  welcome  to  her  guest  she  made. 

And  every  courteous  rite  was  paid. 

That  hospitality  could  claim, 

Though  all  unasked  his  birth  and  name. 

Such  then  the  reverence  to  a  guest, 

That  fellest  foe  might  join  the  feast. 

And  from  his  deadliest  foeman's  door 

Unquestioned  turn,  the  banquet  o'er. 

At  length  his  rank  the  Stranger  names  — 

"  The  Knight  of  Snowdoun,  James  Fitz-James  ; 

Lord  of  a  barren  heritage, 

Which  his  brave  sires,  from  age  to  age. 


332  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

By  their  good  swords  had  held  with  toil; 
His  sire  had  fallen  in  such  turmoil, 
And  he,  God  wot,  was  forced  to  stand 
Oft  for  his  right  with  blade  in  hand. 
This  morning  with  Lord  Moray's  train 
He  chased  a  stalwart  stag  in  vain. 
Outstripped  his  comrades,  missed  the  deer, 
Lost  his  good  steed,  and  wandered  here." 


Fain  would  the  Knight  in  turn  require 
The  name  and  state  of  Ellen's  sire; 
Well  showed  the  elder  lady's  mien. 
That  courts  and  cities  she  had  seen ; 
Ellen,  though  more  her  looks  displayed 
The  simple  grace  of  sylvan  maid. 
In  speech  and  gesture,  form  and  face, 
Showed  she  was  come  of  gentle  race ; 
'Twere  strange  in  ruder  rank  to  find 
Such  looks,  such  manners,  and  such  mind. 
Each  hint  the  Knight  of  Snowdoun  gave. 
Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave ; 
Or  Ellen,  innocently  gay. 
Turned  all  inquiry  light  away. 
"  Wierd  women  we !  by  dale  and  down. 
We  dwell  afar  from  tower  and  town. 
We  stem  the  flood,  we  ride  the  blast. 
On  wandering  knights  our  spells  we  cast; 
While  viewless  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
'Tis  thus  our  charmed  rhymes  we  sing." 
She  sang,  and  still  a  harp  unseen 
Filled  up  the  symphony  between. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  333 


SONG. 

"Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall. 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall. 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er. 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

"No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum. 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here. 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping." 

She  paused  —  then,  blushing,  led  the  lay 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day; 
Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song, 


334  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Till  to  her  lips  in  measured  frame 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came. 

SONG  —  CONTINUED. 

"Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye. 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun. 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep !  the  deer  is  in  his  den ; 

Sleep!  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying; 
Sleep !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen. 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done, 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye. 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille." 

The  hall  was  cleared  —  the  Stranger's  bed 
Was  there  of  mountain  heather  spread, 
Where  oft  an  hundred  guests  had  lain, 
And  dreamed  their  forest  sports  again. 
But  vainly  did  the  heath-flower  shed 
Its  moorland  fragrance  round  his  head ; 
Not  Ellen's  spell  had  lulled  to  rest 
The  fever  of  his  troubled  breast. 
In  broken  dreams  the  image  rose 
Of  varied  perils,  pains,  and  woes ; 
His  steed  now  flounders  in  the  brake, 
Now  sinks  his  barge  upon  the  lake  ; 
Now  leader  of  a  broken  host, 
His  standard  falls,  his  honor's  lost. 
Then  —  from  my  couch  may  heavenly  might 
Chase  that  worst  phantom  of  the  night !  — 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


335 


Again  returned  the  scenes  of  youth, 

Of  confident  undouting  truth; 

Again  his  soul  he  interchanged 

With  friends  whose  hearts  were  long  estranged. 

They  come,  in  dim  procession  led, 

The  cold,  the  faithless,  and  the  dead; 

As  warm  each  hand,  each  brow  as  gay. 

As  if  they  parted  yesterday. 

And  doubt  distracts  him  at  the  view, 

Oh  were  his  senses  false  or  true  ! 

Dreamed  he  of  death,  or  broken  vow. 

Or  is  it  all  a  vision  now! 


At  length,  with  Ellen  in  a  grove. 

He  seemed  to  walk,  and  speak  of  love; 

She  listened  vith  a  blush  and  sigh ; 

His  suit  was  warm,  his  hopes  were  high. 

He  sought  her  yielded  hand  to  clasp, 

And  a  cold  gauntlet  met  his  grasp ; 

The  phantom's  sex  was  changed  and  gone. 

Upon  its  head  a  helmet  shone; 

Slowly  enlarged  to  giant  size. 

With  darkened  cheek  and  threatening  eyes, 

The  grisly  visage,  stern  and  hoar. 

To  Ellen  still  a  likeness  bore. 

He  woke,  and,  panting  with  affright. 

Recalled  the  vision  of  the  night. 

The  hearth's  decaying  brands  were  red. 

And  deep  and  dusky  lustre  shed. 

Half  showing,  half  concealing  all 

The  uncouth  trophies  of  the  hall. 

Mid  those  the  Stranger  fixed  his  eye 

Where  that  huge  falchion  hung  on  high. 


W\ 


>  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And  thoughts  on  thoughts,  a  countless  throng, 
Rushed,  chasing  countless  thoughts  along, 
Until,  the  giddy  whirl  to  cure, 
He  rose,  and  sought  the  moonshine  pure. 

The  wild  rose,  eglantine,  and  broom, 

Wafted  around  then-  rich  perfume ; 

The  birch-trees  wept  in  fragrant  balm. 

The  aspens  slept  beneath  the  calm; 

The  silver  light,  with  quivering  glance. 

Played  on  the  water's  still  expanse  — 

Wild  were  the  heart  whose  passion's  sway 

Could  rage  beneath  the  sober  ray ! 

He  felt  its  calm,  that  warrior  guest, 

While  thus  he  communed  with  his  breast :  — 

"Why  is  it  at  each  turn  I  trace 

Some  memory  of  that  exiled  race  ? 

Can  I  not  mountain  maiden  spy. 

But  she  must  bear  the  Douglas  eye? 

Can  I  not  view  a  highland  brand. 

But  it  must  match  the  Douglas  hand? 

Can  I  not  frame  a  fevered  dream. 

But  still  the  Douglas  is  the  theme  ?  — 

I'll  dream  no  more  —  by  manly  mind 

Not  even  ii>  sleep  is  will  resigned. 

My  midnight  orison  said  o'er, 

I'll  turn  to  rest,  and  dream  no  more." 

His  midnight  orison  he  told, 

A  prayer  with  every  bead  of  gold. 

Consigned  to  heaven  his  cares  and  woes, 

And  sank  in  undisturbed  repose; 

Until  the  heath-cock  shrilly  crew, 

And  morning  dawned  on  Ben-venue. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  337 


CANTO  SECOND. 

THE  ISLAND. 

At  mom  the  black-cock  trims  his  jetty  wing, 

Tis  morning  prompts  the  linnet's  blithest  lay, 
All  nature's  children  feel  the  matin  spring 

Of  life  reviving,  with  reviving  day; 

And  while  yon  little  bark  glides  down  the  bay. 
Wafting  the  stranger  on  his  way  again, 

Morn's  genial  influence  roused  a  Minstrel  gray, 
And  sweetly  o'er  the  lake  was  heard  thy  strain. 
Mixed  with  the  sounding  harp,  oh  white-haired  Allan- 
bane  !    . 

SONG. 

"Not  faster  yonder  rowers'  might 
Flings  from  their  oars  the  spray; 

Not  faster  yonder  rippling  bright. 

That  tracks  the  shallop's  course  m  light, 
Melts  in  the  lake  away, 

Than  men  from  memory  erase 

The  benefits  of  former  days ; 

Then,  Stranger,  go !  good  speed  the  while. 

Nor  think  again  of  the  lonely  isle. 


"High  place  to  thee  in  royal  court. 

High  place  in  bftttled  line. 
Good  hawk  and  hound  for  sylvan  sport, 
Where  Beauty  sees  the  brave  resort, 
The  honored  meed  be  thine! 

29 


338  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

True  be  thy  sword,  thy  friend  sincere, 
Thy  lady  constant,  kind,  and  dear, 
And  lost  in  love's  and  friendship's  smile, 
Be  memory  of  the  lonely  isle. 


SONG  —  CONTIXUED, 

"But  if  beneath  yon  southern  sky 

A  plaided  stranger  roam, 
Whose  drooping  crest  and  stifled  sigh, 
And  sunken  cheek  and  heavy  eye, 

Pine  for  his  highland  home: 
Then,  warrior,  then  be  thine  to  show 
The  care  that  soothes  a  wanderer's  wo ; 
Remember  then  thy  hap  erewhile 
A  stranger  in  the  lonely  isle. 


"Or  if  on  life's  uncertain  main 

Mishap  shall  mar  thy  sail; 
If  faithful,  wise,  and  brave  in  vain, 
Wo,  want,  and  exile  thou  sustain 

Beneath  the  fickle  gale  ; 
Waste  not  a  sigh  on  fortune  changed. 
On  thankless  courts,  or  friends  estranged, 
But  come  where  kindred  worth  shall  smile 
To  greet  thee  in  the  lonely  isle." 

As  died  the  sounds  upon  the  tide, 
The  shallop  reached  the  main-land  side, 
And  ere  his  onward  way  he  took. 
The  Stranger  cast  a  lingering  look, 
Where  easily  his  eye  might  reach 
The  Harper  on  the  islet  beach, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  . 

Reclined  against  a  blighted  tree, 

As  wasted,  gray,  and  worn  as  he. 

To  minstrel  meditation  given, 

His  reverend  brow  was  raised  to  heaven, 

As  from  the  rising  sun  to  claim 

A  sparkle  of  inspiring  flame. 

His  hand,  reclined  upon  the  wire. 

Seemed  watching  the  awakening  fire; 

So  still  he  sate,  as  those  whp  wait 

Till  judgment  speak  the  doom  of  fate ; 

So  still,  as  if  no  breeze  might  dare 

To  lift  one  lock  of  hoary  hair; 

So  still  as  life  itself  were  fled, 

In  the  last  sound  his  harp  had  sped. 

Upon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild, 
Beside  him  Ellen  sate  and  smiled. 
Smiled  she  to  see  the  stately  drake 
Lead  forth  his  fleet  upon  the  lake, 
While  her  vexed  spaniel,  from  the  beach. 
Bayed  at  the  prize  beyond  his  reach? 
Yet  tell  me  then  the  maid  who  knows, 
Why  deepened  on  her  cheek  the  rose? — 
Forgive,  forgive.  Fidelity ! 
Perchance  the  maiden  smiled  to  see 
Yon  parting  lingerer  wave  adieu. 
And  stop  and  turn  to  wave  anew; 
And,  lovely  ladies,  ere  your  ire 
Condemn  the  heroine  of  my  lyre. 
Show  me  the  fair  would  scorn  to  spy. 
And  prize  such  conquest  of  her  eye ! 

While  yet  he  loitered  on  the  spot. 
It  seemed  as  Ellen  marked  hira  not. 


340  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

But  when  he  turned  him  to  the  glade, 

One  courteous  parting  sign  she  made ; 

And  after,  oft  the  knight  would  say. 

That  not  when  prize  of  festal  day 

Was  dealt  him  by  the  brightest  fair 

Who  e'er  wore  jewel  in  her  hair, 

So  highly  did  his  bosom  swell. 

As  at  that  simple  mute  farewell. 

Now  with  a  trusty  mountain  guide. 

And  his  dark  stag-hounds  by  his  side. 

He  parts  —  the  maid,  unconscious  still, 

Watched  him  wind  slowly  round  the  hill; 

But  when  his  stately  form  was  hid. 

The  guardian  in  her  bosom  chid  — 

"  Thy  Malcolm,  vain  and  selfish  maid  ! " 

'Twas  thus  upbraiding  conscience  said ; 

"  Not  so  had  Malcolm  idly  hung 

On  the  smooth  phrase  of  southern  tongue; 

Not  so  had  Malcolm  strained  his  eye 

Another  step  than  thine  to  spy." 

"  Wake,  Allan-bane  !  "  aloud  she  cried, 

To  the  old  Minstrel  by  her  side, 

"Arouse  thee  from  thy  moody  dream! 

I'll  give  thy  harp  heroic  theme, 

And  warm  thee  with  a  noble  name; 

Pour  forth  the  glory  of  the  Graeme." 

Scarce  from  her  lip  the  word  had  rushed, 

When  deep  the  conscious  maiden  blushed, 

For  of  his  clan,  in  hall  and  bower. 

Young  Malcolm  Graeme  was  held  the  flower. 


The  Minstrel  waked  his  harp  —  three  times 
Arose  the  well-known  martial  chimes, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


3U 


And  thrice  their  high  heroic  pride 

In  melancholy  murmurs  died. 

"Vainly  thou  bidd'st,  oh  noble  maid!" 

Clasping  his  withered  hands,  he  said, 

"Vainly  thou  bidd'st  me  wake  the  strain,    " 

Though  all  unwont  to  bid  in  vain. 

Alas  !  than  mine  a  mightier  hand 

Has  tuned  my  harp,  my  strings  has  spanned; 

I  touch  the  chords  of  joy,  but  low 

And  mournful  answer  notes  of  wo; 

And  the  proud  march  which  victors  tread, 

Sinks  in  the  wailing  for  the  dead. 

Oh  well  for  me,  if  mine  alone 

That  dirge's  deep  prophetic  tone! 

If,  as  my  tuneful  fathers  said, 

This  harp,  which  erst  Saint  Modan  swayed, 

Can  thus  its  master's  fate  foretell. 

Then  welcome  be  the  minstrel's  knell! 


"But  ah!  dear  lady,  thus  it  sighed 

The  eve  thy  sainted  mother  died ; 

And  such  the  sounds  which,  while  I  strove 

To  wake  a  lay  of  Avar  or  love. 

Came  marring  all  the  festal  mirth. 

Appalling  me  who  gave  them  birth, 

And,  disobedient  to  my  call. 

Wailed  loud  through  Bothwell's  bannered  hall, 

Ere  Douglases  to  ruin  driven, 

Were  exiled  from  their  native  heaven. 

Oh !  if  yet  worse  mishap  and  wo 

My  master's  house  must  undergo, 

Or  aught  but  weal  to  Ellen  fair. 

Brood  in  these  accents  of  despair, 

29* 


342  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

No  future  bard,  sad  harp !  shall  fling 
Triumph  or  rapture  from  thy  string; 
One  short,  one  final  strain  shall  flow, 
Fraught  with  unutterable  wo, 
Then  shivered  shall  thy  fragments  lie, 
Thy  master  cast  him  down  and  die." 


Soothing  she  answered  him,  "  Assuage, 

Mine  honored  friend,  the  fears  of  age; 

All  melodies  to  thee  are  known. 

That  harp  has  rung,  or  pipe  has  blown. 

In  lowland  vale  or  highland  glen, 

From  Tweed  to  Spey  —  what  marvel,  then, 

At  times,  unbidden  notes  should  rise, 

Confusedly  bound  in  memory's  ties. 

Entangling,  as  they  rush  along. 

The  war-march  with  the  funeral  song? 

Small  ground  is  now  for  boding  fear; 

Obscure,  but  safe,  we  rest  us  here. 

My  sire,  in  native  virtue  great. 

Resigning  lordship,  lands,  and  state. 

Not  then  to  fortune  more  resigned. 

Than  yonder  oak  might  give  the  wind; 

The  graceful  foliage  storms  may  reave. 

The  noble  stem  they  cannot  grieve. 

For  me  "  —  she  stooped,  and,  looking  round, 

Plucked  a  blue  hare-bell  from  the  ground, 

"For  me,  whose  memory  scarce  conveys 

An  image  of  more  splendid  days. 

This  little  flower,  that  loves  the  lea. 

May  well  my  simple  emblem  be ; 

It  drinks  heaven's  dew  as  blithe  as  rose 

That  in  the  King's  own  garden  grows. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  343 

And  when  I  place  it  in  my  hair, 

Allan,  a  bard  is  bound  to  swear 

He  ne'er  saw  coronet  so  fair." 

Then  playfully  the  chaplet  wild 

She  wreathed  in  her  dark  locks,  and  smiled. 

Her  smile,  her  speech,  with  winning  sway, 
Wiled  the  old  harper's  mood  away. 
With  such  a  look  as  hermits  throw 
When  angels  stoop  to  soothe  their  wo. 
He  gazed,  till  fond  regret  and  pride 
Thrilled  to  a  tear,  then  thus  replied :  — 
"  Loveliest  and  best !  thou  little  know'st 
The  rank,  the  honors  thou  hast  lost ! 
Oh  might  I  live  to  see  thee  grace. 
In  Scotland's  court,  thy  birthright  place, 
To  see  my  favorite's  step  advance, 
The  lightest  in  the  courtly  dance, 
The  cause  of  every  gallant's  sigh, 
And  leading  star  of  every  eye, 
And  theme  of  every  minstrel's  art. 
The  Lady  of  the  Bleeding  Heart!" 

"Fair  dreams  are  these,"  the  maiden  cried, 
(Light  was  her  accent,  yet  she  sighed,) 
"Yet  is  this  mossy  rock  to  me 
Worth  splendid  chair  and  canopy ; 
Nor  would  my  footstep  spring  more  gay 
In  courtly  dance  than  blithe  strathspey, 
Nor  half  so  pleased  mine  ear  incline 
To  royal  minstrel's  lay  as  thine ; 
And  then  for  suitors  proud  and  high. 
To  bend  before  my  conquering  eye. 


.'}44  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Thou,  flattering  bard !  thyself  wilt  say, 
That  grim  Sir  Roderick  owns  its  sway. 
The  Saxon  scourge,  Clan-Alpine's  pride, 
The  terror  of  Loch-Lomond's  side, 
Would,  at  my  suit,  thou  know'st  delay 
A  Lennox  foray  —  for  a  day." 

The  ancient  bard  his  glee  repressed: 

"  111  hast  thou  chosen  theme  for  jest ! 

For  who,  through  all  this  western  wild. 

Named  black  Sir  Roderick  e'er,  and  smiled? 

In  Holy-Rood  a  knight  he  slew ; 

I  saw,  when  back  the  dirk  he  drew. 

Courtiers  gave  place  before  the  stride 

Of  the  undaunted  homicide  ; 

And  since,  though  outlawed,  hath  his  hand 

Full  sternly  kept  his  mountain  land. 

Who  else  dared  give  —  ah !  wo  the  day, 

That  I  such  hated  truth  should  say  — 

The  Douglas,  like  a  stricken  deer, 

Disowned  by  every  noble  peer. 

Even  the  rude  refuge  we  have  here  ? 

Alas,  this  wild  marauding  chief 

Alone  might  hazard  our  relief. 

And  now  thy  maiden  charms  expand, 

Looks  for  his  guerdon  in  thy  hand ; 

Full  soon  may  dispensation  sought. 

To  back  his  suit,  from  Rome  be  brought 

Then,  though  an  exile  on  the  hill. 

Thy  father,  as  the  Douglas,  still 

Be  held  in  reverence  and  fear. 

But  though  to  Roderick  thou'rt  so  dear. 

That  thou  might'st  guide  with  silken  thread 

Slave  of  thv  will,  this  chieftain  dread ; 


THE  LADY  OF  ,  THE  LABLE.  345 

Yet,  oh  loved  maid,  thy  mirth  refrain! 
Thy  hand  is  on  a  lion's  mane." 

"Minstrel,"  the  maid  replied,  and  high 
Her  father's  soul  glanced  from  her  eye, 
"  My  debts  to  Roderick's  house  I  know  ; 
All  that  a  mother  could  bestow, 
To  Lady  Margaret's  care  I  owe. 
Since  first  an  orphan  in  the  wild 
She  sorrowed  o'er  her  sister's  child  : 
To  her  brave  chieftain  son,  from  ire 
Of  Scotland's  king  who  shrouds  my  sire, 
A  deeper,  holier  debt  is  owed; 
And,  could  I  pay  it  with  my  blood, 
Allan!  Sir  Roderick  should  command 
My  blood,  my  life  —  but  not  my  hand. 
Rather  will  Ellen  Douglas  dwell 
A  votaress  in  Maronan's  cell ; 
Rather  through  realms  beyond  the  sea, 
Seeking  the  world's  cold  charity. 
Where  ne'er  was  spoke  a  Scottish  word, 
And  ne'er  the  name  of  Douglas  heard. 
An  outcast  pilgrim  will  she  rove. 
Than  wed  the  man  she  cannot  love. 


"  Thou  shak'st,  good  friend,  thy  tresses  gray— 
That  pleading  look,  what  can  it  say 
But  what  I  own?  —  I  grant  him  brave. 
But  wild  as  Blacklinn's  thundering  wave ; 
And  generous  —  save  vindictive  mood. 
Or  jealous  transport  chafe  his  blood ; 
I  grant  him  true  to  friendly  band, 
As  his  claymore  is  to  his  hand: 


346  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

But  oh !  that  very  blade  of  steel 

More  mercy  for  a  foe  would  feel : 

I  grant  him  liberal,  to  fling 

Among  his  clan  the  wealth  they  bring, 

When  back  by  lake  and  glen  they  wind, 

And  in  the  Lowland  leave  behind, 

Where  once  some  pleasant  hamlet  stood, 

A  mass  of  ashes  slaked  with  blood. 

The  hand,  that  for  my  father  fought, 

I  honor,  as  his  daughter  ought ; 

But  can  I  clasp  it  reeking  red. 

From  peasants  slaughtered  in  their  shed? 

No!  wildly  while  his  virtues  gleam. 

They  make  his  passions  darker  seem. 

And  flash  along  his  spirit  high, 

Like  lightning  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 

While  yet  a  child  —  and  children  know, 

Instinctive  taught,  the  friend  and  foe  — 

I  shuddered  at  his  brow  of  gloom. 

His  shadowy  plaid,  and  sable  plume  ; 

A  maiden  grown,  I  ill  could  bear 

His  haughty  mien  and  lordly  air ; 

But,  if  thou  join'st  a  suitor's  claim. 

In  serious  mood,  to  Roderick's  name, 

I  thrill  with  anguish!  or,  if  e'er 

A  Douglas  knew  the  word,  with  fear. 

To  change  such  odious  theme  were  best- 

What  think'st  thou  of  our  stranger  guest?" 


"What  think  I  of  him?  —  wo  the  while 
That  brought  such  wanderer  to  our  isle ! 
Thy  father's  battle-brand,  of  yore 
For  Tine-man  forged  by  fairy  lore, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


347 


What  time  he  leagued,  no  longer  foes, 

His  Border  spear  with  Hotspur's  bows, 

Did,  self  unscabbarded,  foreshow 

The  footstep  of  a  secret  foe. 

If  courtly  spy,  and  harbored  here, 

What  may  we  for  the  Douglas  fear? 

What  for  this  island,  deemed  of  old 

Clan- Alpine's  last  and  surest  hold? 

If  neither  spy  nor  foe,  I  pray 

What  yet  may  jealous  Roderick  say ! 

—  Nay,  wave  not  thy  disdainful  head! 

Bethink  thee  of  the  discord  dread, 

That  kindled  when  at  Beltane  game, 

Thou  ledd'st  the  dance  with  Malcolm  Grseme ; 

Still,  though  thy  sire  the  peace  renewed. 

Smoulders  in  Roderick's  breast  the  feud; 

Beware !  —  But  hark,  what  sounds  are  these  ? 

My  dull  ears  catch  no  faltering  breeze. 

No  weeping  birch,  nor  aspens  wake. 

Nor  breath  is  dimpling  in  the  lake. 

Still  is  the  canna's  hoary  beard. 

Yet,  by  my  minstrel  faith,  I  heard. 

And  hark  again!  some  pipe  of  war 

Sends  the  bold  pibroch  from  afar." 


Far  up  the  lengthened  lake  were  spied 
Four  darkening  specks  upon  the  tide. 
That,  slow  enlarging  on  the  view. 
Four  manned  and  masted  barges  grew, 
And  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 
Steered  full  upon  the  lonely  isle  ; 
The  point  of  Brianchoil  they  passed. 
And,  to  the  windward  as  they  cast, 


9t8  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Against  the  sun  they  gave  to  shine 
The  bold  Sir  Roderick's  bannered  pine. 
Nearer  and  nearer  as  they  bear, 
Spears,  pikes,  and  axes  flash  in  air. 
Now  might  you  see  the  tartans  brave, 
And  plaids  and  plumage  dance  and  wave ; 
Now  see  the  bonnets  sink  and  rise. 
As  his  tough  oar  tlie  rower  plies ; 
See,  flashing  at  each  sturdy  stroke, 

i  The  wave  ascending  into  smoke; 

!  See  the  proud  pipers  on  the  bow, 

And  mark  the  gaudy  streamers  flow 
From  their  loud  chanters  down,  and  sweep 
The  furrowed  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As,  rushing  through  the  lake  amain. 
They  plied  the  ancient  Highland  strain. 


Ever,  as  on  they  bore,  more  loud 

And  louder  rung  the  pibroch  proud. 

At  first  the  sounds,  by  distance  tame. 

Mellowed  along  the  waters  came, 

And,  lingering  long  by  cape  and  bay, 

Wailed  every  harsher  note  away; 

Then,  bursting  bolder  on  the  ear. 

The  clan's  shrill  Gathering  they  could  hear; 

Those  thrilling  sounds,  that  call  the  might 

Of  old  Clan-Alpine  to  the  fight. 

Thick  beat  the  rapid  notes,  as  when 

The  mustering  hundreds  shake  the  glen, 

And,  hurrying  at  the  signal  dread. 

The  battered  earth  returns  their  tread. 

Then  prelude  light,  of  livelier  tone, 

Expressed  their  merry  marching  on. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  349 

Ere  peal  of  closing  battle  rose, 

With  mingled  outcry,  shrieks,  and  blows; 

And  mimic  din  of  stroke  and  ward, 

As  broadsword  upon  target  jarred; 

And  groaning  pause,  ere  yet  again, 

Condensed,  the  battle  yelled  amain; 

The  rapid  charge,  the  rallying  shout, 

Retreat  borne  headlong  into  rout, 

And  bursts  of  triumph,  to  declare 

Clan- Alpine's  conquest  —  all  were  there. 

Nor  ended  thus  the  strain ;  but  slow, 

Sunk  in  a  moan  prolonged  and  low. 

And  changed  the  conquering  clarion  swell, 

For  wild  lament  o'er  those  that  fell. 

The  war-pipes  ceased ;  but  lake  and  hill 
Were  busy  with  their  echoes  still; 
And,  when  they  slept,  a  vocal  strain 
Bade  their  hoarse  chorus  wake  again, 
While  loud  an  hundred  clansmen  raise 
Their  voices  in  their  chieftain's  praise. 
Each  boatman,  bending  to  his  oar. 
With  measured  sweep  the  burthen  bore. 
In  such  wild  cadence,  as  the  breeze 
Makes  through  December's  leafless  trees. 
The  chorus  first  could  Allan  know, 
"Roderigh  Vich  Alpine,  ho!  iro!" 
And  near,  and  nearer  as  they  rowed. 
Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flowed. 

30 


dllO  THE   LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


BOAT  SONG. 

Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances! 
Honored  and  blest  be  the  evergreen  pine! 
Long  may  the  Tree  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line ! 

Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 

Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 

While  every  highland  glen 

Sends  our  shout  back  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !  " 


Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at/ Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every  leaf  on  the 

mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan- Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 

Moored  in  the.  rifted  rock. 

Proof  to  the  ^tempest's  shock. 
Firmer  hej-oots  him  the'fruder  it  blow; 

Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 

Echo  his  praises  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  ! " 


Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen  Fruin, 
And  Banachar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replied ; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking  in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch-Lomond  lie  dead  on  her  side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  351 

Think  of  Clan- Alpine  with  fear  and  with  wo; 

Lennox  and  Leven-glen 

Shake  when  they  hear  agen, 
« Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  ! " 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highlands! 

Stretch  to  your  oars,  for  the  evergreen  Pine! 
Oh!  that  the  rose-bud  that  graces  yon  islands. 
Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him  to  twine ! 

Oh  that  some  seedling  gem, 

Worthy  such  noble  stem. 
Honored  and  blessed  in  their  shadow  might  grow ! 

Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 

Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
"Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!" 

With  all  her  joyful  female  band. 
Had  Lady  Margaret  sought  the  strand. 
Loose  on  the  breeze  their  tresses  flew, 
And  high  their  snowy  arms  they  threw, 
As  echoing  back  with  shrill  acclaim 
And  chorus  wild  the  chieftain's  name; 
While,  prompt  to  please,  with  mother's  art, 
The  darling  passion  of  his  heart. 
The  Dame  called  Ellen  to  tlie  strand. 
To  greet  her  kinsman  ere  he  land : 
"Come,  loiterer,  come!  a  Douglas  thou, 
And  shun  to  wreathe  a  victor's  brow?" 
Reluctantly  and  slow,  the  maid 
The  unwelcome  summoning  obeyed, 
And,  when  a  distant  bugle  rung. 
In  the  mid-path  aside  she  sprung: 
"  List,  Allan-bane !  from  mainland  cast, 
I  hear  my  father's  signal  blast. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Be  ours,"  she  cried,  "the  skiff  to  guide, 
And  waft  him  from  the  mountain  side." 
Then,  like  a  sunbeam  swift  and  bright, 
She  darted  to  her  shallop  light, 
And,  eagerly,  while  Roderick  scanned,"^ 
For  her  dear  form,  his  mother's  band, 
The  islet  far  behind  her  lay,  ^ 

And  she  had  landed  in  the  bay. 

Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given. 
With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven; 
And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 
From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear, 
A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek. 
It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 
'Tis  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 
Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head ! 
And  as  the  Douglas  to  his  breast 
His  darling  Ellen  closely  pressed, 
Such  holy  drops  her  tresses  steeped. 
Though  'twas  an  hero's  eye  that  weeped. 
Nor  while  on  Ellen's  faltering  tongue 
Her  filial  welcomes  crowded  hung. 
Marked  she,  that  fear  (affection's  proof) 
Still  held  a  graceful  youth  aloof; 
No !  not  till  Douglas  named  his  name. 
Although  the  youth  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 

Allan,  with  wistful  look  the  while. 
Marked  Roderick  landing  on  the  isle; 
His  master  piteously  he  eyed. 
Then  gazed  apon  the  chieftain's  pride. 
Then  dashed,  with  hasty  hand,  away 
From  hi?  dimmed  eye  the  gathering  spray; 


THE    LADY    OF    THK    LAKE. 


353 


And  Douglas,  as  his  hand  he  laid 

On  Malcolm's  shoulder,  kindly  said, 

"  Canst  thou,  young  friend,  no  meaning  spy 

In  my  poor  follower's  glistening  eye? 

I'll  tell  thee  :  —  he  recalls  the  day, 

When  in  my  praise  he  led  the  lay 

O'er  the  arched  gate  of  Bothwell  proud, 

While  many  a  minstrel  answered  loud. 

When  Percy's  Norman  pennon,  won 

In  bloody  field,  before  me  shone, 

And  twice  ten  knights,  the  least  a  name 

As  mighty  as  yon  chief  may  claim. 

Gracing  my  pomp,  behind  me  came. 

Yet  trust  me,  Malcolm,  not  so  proud 

Was  I  of  all  that  marshalled  crowd. 

Though  the  waned  crescent  owned  my  might, 

And  in  my  train  trooped  lord  and  knight, 

Though  Blantyre  hymned  her  holiest  lays, 

And  Bothwell's  bards  flung  back  my  praise, 

As  when  this  old  man's  silent  tear. 

And  this  poor  maid's  affection  dear, 

A  welcome  give  more  kind  and  true 

Than  aught  my  better  fortunes  knew. 

Forgive,  my  friend,  a  father's  boast; 

Oh!  it  outbeggars  all  I  lost!" 

Delightful  praise! — like  summer  rose. 
That  brighter  in  the  dew-drop  glows. 
The  bashful  maiden's  cheek  appeared  — 
For  Douglas  spoke,  and  Malcolm  heard. 
The  flush  of  shame-faced  joy  to  hide. 
The  hounds,  the  hawk,  her  cares  divide: 
The  loved  caresses  of  the  maid 
The  dogs  with  crouch  and  whimper  paid ; 

30* 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And,  at  her  whistle,  on  her  hand 
The  falcon  took  his  favorite  stand. 
Closed  his  dark  wing,  relaxed  his  eye. 
Nor,  though  unhooded,  sought  to  fly. 
And  trust,  while  in  such  guise  she  stood, 
Like  fabled  Goddess  of  the  Wood, 
That  if  a  father's  partial  thought 
O'erweighed  her  worth  and  beauty  aught, 
Well  might  the  lover's  judgment  fail. 
To  balance  with  a  juster  scale ; 
For  with  each  secret  glance  he  stole. 
The  fond  enthusiast  sent  his  soul. 


Of  stature  fair,  and  slender  frame. 
But  firmly  knit,  was  Malcolm  Grseme. 
The  belted  plaid  and  tartan  hose 
Did  ne'er  more  graceful  limbs  disclose; 
His  flaxen  hair,  of  sunny  hue. 
Curled  closely  round  his  bonnet  blue ; 
Trained  to  the  chase,  his  eagle  eye 
The  ptarmigan  in  snow  could  spy ; 
Each  pass,  by  mountain,  lake,  and  heath, 
He  knew,  through  Lennox  and  Menteith ; 
Vain  was  the  bound  of  dark-brown  doe. 
When  Malcolm  bent  his  sounding  bow. 
And  scarce  that  doe,  though  winged  with  fear, 
Outstripped  in  speed  the  mountaineer; 
Right  up  Ben-Lomond  could  he  press, 
And  not  a  sob  his  toil  confess. 
His  form  accorded  with  a  mind 
Lively  and  ardent,  frank  and  kind ; 
A  blither  heart,  till  Ellen  came. 
Did  never  love  nor  sorrow  tame ; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  355 

It  danced  as  lightsome  in  his  breast, 
As  played  the  feather  on  his  crest. 
Yet  friends,  who  nearest  knew  the  youth, 
His  scorn  of  wrong",  his  zeal  for  truth. 
And  bards,  who  saw  his  features  bold, 
When  kindled  by  the  tales  of  old,      __ 
Said,  were  that  youth  to  manhood  grown. 
Not  long  should  Roderick  Dhu's  renown 
Be  foremost  voiced  by  mountain  fame. 
But  quail  to  that  of  Malcolm  Grseme. 
Now  back  they  wend  their  watery  way. 
And,  "  Oh  my  sire ! "  did  Ellen  say, 
."  Why  urge  thy  chase  so  far  astray  ? 
And  why  so  late  returned?     And  why"  — 
The  rest  was  in  her  speaking  eye. 
"My  child,  the  chase  I  follow  far, 
'Tis  mimicry  of  noble  war; 
And  with  that  gallant  pastime  reft. 
Were  all  of  Douglas  I  have  left. 
I  met  young  Malcolm  as  I  strayed 
Far  eastward,  in  Glenfinlas'  shade, 
Nor  strayed  I  safe ;  for,  all  around, 
Hunters  and  horsemen  scoured  the  ground. 
This  youth,  though  still  a  royal  ward. 
Risked  life  and  land  to  be  my  guard. 
And  through  the  passes  of  the  wood 
Guided  my  steps  not  unpursued  ; 
And  Roderick  shall  his  welcome  make. 
Despite  old  spleen,  for  Douglas'  sake. 
Then  must  he  seek  Strath-Endrick  glen. 
Nor  peril  aught  for  me  agen." 

Sir  Roderick,  who  to  meet  them  came. 
Reddened  at  sight  of  Malcolm  Grseme. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Yet,  not  in  action,  word,  or  eye, 

Failed  aught  in  hospitality. 

In  talk  and  sport  they  whiled  away 

The  morning  of  that  summer  day ; 

But  at  high  noon  a  courier  light 

Held  secret  parley  with  the  knight, 

Whose  moody  aspect  soon  declared. 

That  evil  were  the  news  he  heard. 

Deep  thought  seemed  toiling  in  his  head; 

Yet  was  the  evening  banquet  made. 

Ere  he  assembled  round  the  flame. 

His  mother,  Douglas,  and  the  Graeme, 

And  Ellen  too;  then  cast  around 

His  eyes,  then  fixed  them  on  the  ground. 

As  studying  phrase  that  might  avail 

Best  to  convey  unpleasant  tale. 

Long  with  his  dagger's  hilt  he  played. 

Then  raised  his  haughty  brow,  and  said:- 


"  Short  be  my  speech ;  nor  time  affords, 
Nor  my  plain,  temper,  glozing  words. 
Kinsman  and  father  —  if  such  name 
Douglas  vouchsafe  to  Roderick's  claim, 
Mine  honored  mother;  Ellen  —  why. 
My  cousin,  turn  away  thine  eye? 
And  Graeme ;  in  whom  I  hope  to  know 
Full  soon  a  noble  friend  or  foe, 
When  age  shall  give  thee  thy  command, 
And  leading  in  thy  native  land  — 
List  all!     The  King's  vindictive  pride 
Boasts  to  have  tamed  the  Border-side, 
Where  chiefs,  with  hound  and  hawk,  who  came 
To  share  their  monarch's  sylvan  game. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  357 

Themselves  in  bloody  toils  were  snared, 
And  when  the  banquet  they  prepared, 
And  wide  their  loyal  portals  flung, 
O'er  their  own  gateway  struggling  hung. 
Loud  cries  their  blood  from  Meggat's  mead, 
From  Yarrow  braes  and  banks  of  Tweed, 
Where  the  lone  streams  of  Ettricke  glide, 
And  from  the  silver  Teviot's  side ; 
The  dales,  where  martial  clans  did  ride, 
Are  now  one  sheep-walk  waste  and  wide. 
This  tyrant  of  the  Scottish  throne, 
So  faithless,  and  so  ruthless  known, 
Now  hither  comes ;  his  end  the  same. 
The  same  pretext  of  sylvan  game. 
What  grace  for  Highland  chiefs  judge  ye, 
By  fate  of  Border  chivalry. 
Yet  more ;  amid  Glenfinlas  green, 
Douglas,  thy  stately  form  was  seen. 
This  by  espial  sure  I  know : 
Your  counsel  in  the  strait  I  show." 


Ellen  and  Margaret  fearfully 
Sought  comfort  in  each  other's  eye. 
Then  turned  their  ghastly  look,  each  one, 
This  to  her  sire,  that  to  her  son. 
The  hasty  color  went  and  came 
In  the  bold  cheek  of  Malcolm  Graeme ; 
But,  from  his  glance  it  well  appeared, 
'Twas  but  for  Ellen  that  he  feared ; 
While  sorrowful,  but  undismayed. 
The  Douglas  thus  his  counsel  said :  — 
*'  Brave  Roderick,  though  the  tempest  roar. 
It  may  but  thunder  and  pass  o'er; 


358  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Nor  will  I  here  remain  an. hour, 
To  draw  the  lightning  on  thy  bower; 
^  For  well  thou  know'st,  at  this  gray  head 
The  royal  bolt  were  fiercest  sped. 
For  thee,  who,  at  thy  King's  command, 
Canst  aid  him  with  a  gallant  band, 
Submission,  homage,  humbled  pride. 
Shall  turn  the  Monarch's  wrath  aside. 
Poor  remnants  of  the  Bleeding  Heart, 
Ellen  and  I  will  seek,  apart. 
The  refuge  of  some  forest  cell ; 
There,  like  the  hunted  quarry,  dwell. 
Till,  on  the  mountain  and  the  moor. 
The  stern  pursuit  be  passed  and  o'er. 


"  No,  by  mine  honor !  "  Roderick  said, 

"  So  help  me  heaven,  and  my  good  blade  ! 

No,  never!     Blasted  be  yon  pine. 

My  fathers'  ancient  crest  and  mine, 

If  from  its  shade  in  danger  part 

The  lineage  of  the  Bleeding  Heart! 

Hear  my  blunt  speech.     Grant  me  this  maid 

To  wife,  thy  counsel  to  mine  aid ; 

To  Douglas,  leagued  with  Roderick  Dhu, 

Will  friends  and  allies  flock  enow; 

Like  cause  of  doubt,  distrust,  and  grief. 

Will  bind  us  to  each  Western  Chief. 

When  the  loud  pipes  my  bridal  tell, 

The  Links  of  Forth  shall  hear  the  knell. 

The  guards  shall  start  in  Stirling's  porch; 

And  when  I  light  the  nuptial  torch, 

A  thousand  villages  in  flames, 

Shall  scare  the  slumbers  of  King  James. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  359 

—  Nay,. Ellen,  blench  not  thus  away, 
And,  mother,  cease  these  sighs,  I  pray; 
I  meant  not  all  my  heat  might  say. 
Small  need  of  inroad,  or  of  fight. 
When  the  sage  Douglas  may  unite 
Each  mountain  clan  in  friendly  band, 
To  guard  the  passes  of  their  land, 
Till  the  foiled  King,  from  pathless  glen. 
Shall  bootless  turn  him  home  agen. 

There  are  who  have,  at  midnight  hour, 

In  slumber  scaled  a  dizzy  tower. 

And,  on  the  verge  that  beetled  o'er 

The  ocean-tide's  incessant  roar, 

Dreamed  calmly  out  their  dangerous  dream, 

Till  wakened  by  the  morning  beam; 

When,  dazzled  by  the  eastern  glow, 

Such  startler  cast  his  glance  below. 

And  saw  unmeasured  depth  around. 

And  heard  unintermitted  sound. 

And  thought  the  battled  fence  so  frail, 

It  waved  like  cobweb  in  the  gale; 

Amid  his  senses'  giddy  wheel. 

Did  he  not  desperate  impulse  feel. 

Headlong  to  plunge  himself  below. 

And  meet  the  worst  his  fears  foreshow ! 

Thus,  Ellen,  dizzy  and  astound, 

As  sudden  ruin  yawned  around, 

By  crossing  terrors  wildly  tossed, 

Still  for  the  Douglas  fearing  most. 

Could  scarce  the  desperate  thought  withstand, 

To  buy  his  safety  with  her  hand. 

Such  purpose  dread  could  Malcolm  spy 
In  Ellen's  quivering  lip  and  eye, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And  eager  rose  to  speak  —  but  ere 
His  tongue  could  hurry  forth  his  fear, 
Had  Douglas  marked  the  hectic  strife, 
Where  death  seemed  combating  with  life; 
For  to  her  cheek,  in  feverish  flood, 
One  instant  rushed  the  throbbing  blood. 
Then  ebbing  back,  with  sudden  sway. 
Left  its  domain  as  wan  as  clay. 
"Roderick,  enough!  enough!"  he  cried, 
•'  My  daughter  cannot  be  thy  bride ; 
Not  that  the  blush  to  wooer  dear. 
Nor  paleness  that  of  maiden  fear. 
It  may  not  be  —  forgive  her,  chief. 
Nor  hazard  aught  for  our  relief. 
Against  his  sovereign,  Douglas  ne'er 
Will  level  a  rebellious  spear. 
'Twas  I  that  taught  his  youthful  hand 
To  rein  a  steed  and  Avield  a  brand. 
I  see  him  yet,  the  princely  boy ! 
Not  Ellen  more  my  pride  and  joy ; 
I  love  him  still,  despite  my  wrongs, 
By  hasty  wrath  and  slanderous  tongues. 
Oh  seek  the  grace  you  well  may  find. 
Without  a  cause  to  mine  combined." 


Twice  through  the  hall  the  Chieftain  strode, 
The  waving  of  his  tartans  broad, 
And  darkened  brow,  where  wounded  pride 
With  ire  and  disappointment  vied. 
Seemed,  by  the  torch's  gloomy  light. 
Like  the  ill  Daemon  of  the  night. 
Stooping  his  pinions'  shadowy  sway 
Upon  the  nighted  pilgrim's  way: 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  361 

But,  unrequited  Love!  thy  dart 
Plunged  deepest  its  envenomed  smart, 
And  Roderick,  with  thine  anguish  stung, 
At  length  the  hand  of  Douglas  wrung. 
While  eyes,  that  mocked  at  tears  before, 
With  bitter  drops  were  running  o'er. 
The  death-pangs  of  long-cherished  hope 
Scarce  in  that  ample  breast  had  scope. 
But,  struggling  with  his  spirit  proud. 
Convulsive  heaved  its  checkered  shroud, 
While  every  sob  —  so  mute  were  all  — 
Was  heard  distinctly  through  the  hall. 
The  son's  despair,  the  mother's  look, 
111  might  the  gentle  Ellen  brook ; 
She  rose,  and  to  her  side  there  came, 
To  aid  her  parting  steps,  the  Graeme. 

Then  Roderick  from  the  Douglas  broke  — 
As  flashes  flame  through  sable  smoke. 
Kindling  its  wreaths,  long,  dark,  and  low, 
To  one  broad  blaze  of^ruddy  glow. 
So  the  deep  anguish  of  despair 
Burst,  in  fierce  jealousy,  to  air. 
With  stalwart  grasp  his  hand  he  laid 
On  Malcolm's  breast  and  belted  plaid :  — 
"Back,  beardless  boy!"  he  sternly  said, 
"  Back,  minion !  hold'st  thou  thus  at  naught 
The  lesson  I  so  lately  taught  ? 
This  roof,  the  Douglas,  and  that  maid 
Thank  thou  for  punishment  delayed." 
Eager  as  gray  hound  on  his  game. 
Fiercely  with  Roderick  grappled  Grseme. 
"Perish  my  name,  if  aught  afford 
Its  chieftain  safety,  save  his  sword ! " 

31 


862  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Thus  as  they  strove,  their  desperate  hand 

Griped  to  the  dagger  or  the  brand, 

And  death  had  been  —  but  Douglas  rose, 

And  thrust  between  the  struggling  foes 

His  giant  strength :  —  "  Chieftains,  forego ! 

I  hold  the  first  who  strikes,  my  foe. 

Madmen,  forbear  your  frantic  jar! 

What!  is  the  Douglas  fallen  so  far, 

His  daughter's  hand  is  deemed  the  spoil 

Of  such  dishonorable  broil !  " 

Sullen  and  slowly  they  unclasp. 

As  struck  with  shame,  their  desperate  grasp, 

And  each  upon  his  rival  glared. 

With  foot  advanced,  and  blade  half  bared. 


Ere  yet  the  brands  aloft  were  flung, 
Margaret  on  Roderick's  mantle  hung, 
And  Malcolm  heard  his  Ellen's  scream, 
As  faltered  through  terrific  dream. 
Then  Roderick  plunged  in  sheath  his  sword, 
And  veiled  his  wrath  in  scornful  word. 
"  Rest  safe  till  morning ;  pity  'twere 
Such  cheek  should  feel  the  midnight  air! 
Then  may'st  thou  to  James  Stuart  tell, 
Roderick  will  keep  the  lake  and  fell. 
Nor  lackey,  with  his  free-born  clan, 
The  pageant  pomp  of  earthly  man. 
More  would  he  of  Clan-Alpine  know. 
Thou  canst  our  strength  and  passes  show. 
Malise,  what  ho  ?"  —  his  henchman  came  ; ' 
"Give  our  safe  conduct  to  the  Graeme." 
Young  Malcolm  answered,  calm  and  bold, 
"Fear  nothing  for  thy  favorite  hold. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  363 

The  spot,  an  angel  deigned  to  grace, 
Is  blessed,  though  robbers  haunt  the  place; 
Thy  churlish  courtesy  for  those 
Reserve,  who  fear  to  be  thy  foes. 
As  safe  to  me  the  mountain  way 
At  ipidnight,  as  in  blaze  of  day. 
Though,  with  his  boldest  at  his  back, 
Even  Roderick  Dhu  beset  the  track. 
Brave  Douglas  —  lovely  Ellen  —  nay, 
Naught  here  of  parting  will  I  say. 
Earth  does  not  hold  a  lonesome  glen. 
So  secret,  but  we  meet  agen. 
Chieftain!  we  too  shall  find  an  hour," 
He  said,  and  left  the  sylvan  bower. 

Old  Allan  followed  to  the  strand, 

(Such  was  the  Douglas's  command,) 

And  anxious  told,  how,  on  the  morn, 

The  stern  Sir  Roderick  deep  had  sworn, 

The  Fiery  Cross  should  circle  o'er 

Dale,  glen,  and  valley,  down,  and  moor. 

Much  were  the  peril  to  the  Grseme, 

From  those  who  to  the  signal  came ; 

Far  up  the  lake  'twere  safest  land. 

Himself  would  row  him  to  the  strand. 

He  gave  his  counsel  to  the  wind. 

While  Malcolm  did,  unheeding,  bind, 

Round  dirk  and  pouch  and  broadsword  rolled. 

His  ample  plaid  in  tightened  fold, 

And  stripped  his  limbs  to  such  array 

As  best  might  suit  the  watery  way. 

Then  spoke  abrupt :  —  "  Farewell  to  thee, 
Pattern  of  old  fidelity!" 


364  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

The  minstrel's  hand  he  kindly  pressed, 
"  Oh !  could  I  point  a  place  of  rest ! 
My  sovereign  holds  in  ward  my  land, 
My  uncle  leads  my  vassal  band ; 
To  tame  his  foes,  his  friends  to  aid, 
Poor  Malcolm  has  but  heart  and  blade : 
Yet,  if  there  be  one  faithful  Graeme, 
Who  loves  the  Chieftain  of  his  name, 
Not  long  shall  honored  Douglas  dwell, 
Like  hunted  stag,  in  mountain  cell : 
Nor,  ere  yon  pride-swollen  robber  dare — • 
I  may  not  give  the  rest  to  air!  — 
Tell  Roderick  Dhu,  I  owe  him  naught. 
Not  the  poor  service  of  a  boat. 
To  waft  me  to  yon  mountain  side ; " 
Then  plunged  he  in  the  flashing  tide. 
Bold  o'er  the  flood  his  head  he  bore. 
And  stoutly  steered  him  from  the  shore; 
And  Allan  strained  his  anxious  eye. 
Far  'mid  the  lake  his  form  to  spy. 
Darkening  across  each  puny  wave, 
To  which  the  moon  her  silver  gave. 
Fast  as  the  cormorant  could  skim, 
'  The  swimmer  plied  each  active  limb  ; 

Then  landing  in  the  moonlight  dell. 
Loud  shouted  of  his  weal  to  tell. 
The  Minstrel  heard  the  far  halloo. 
And  joyfiil  from  the  shore  withdrew. 


THJS    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  365 


CANTO  THIRD. 


THE   GATHERING. 


Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course.     The  race  of  yore 
Who  danced  our  infancy  upon  their  knee, 

And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends  store, 
Of  their  strange  ventures  happ'd  by  land  or  sea, 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that  be ! 

How  few,  all  weak  and  withered  of  their  force, 
Wait,  on  the  verge  of  dark  eternity. 

Like  stranded  wrecks,  the  tide  returning  hoarse, 

To   sweep   them   from   our  sight!     Time    rolls    his 
ceaseless  course. 

Yet  live  there  still  who  can  remember  well. 

How,  when  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle  blew, 
Botli  field  and  forest,  dingle,  cliff,  and  dell. 

And  solitary  heath,  the  signal  knew ; 

And  fast  the  faithful  clan  around  him  drew. 
What  time  the  warning  note  was  keenly  wound. 

What  time  aloft  their  kindred  banner  flew. 
While    clamorous    war-pipes    yelled    the     gathering 

sound. 
And  while  the^  Fiery  Cross   glanced,  like  a  meteor 
round. 


The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 

To  purple  changed  Loch-Katrine  blue; 

Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 

Just  kissed  the  lake,  just  stirred  the  trees, 

31* 


366  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

And  the  pleased  lake,  like  maiden  coy, 

Trembled  but  dimpled  not  for  joy ; 

The  mountain  shadows  on  her  breast. 

Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest; 

In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 

Like  future  joys  to  Fancy's  eye. 

The  water  lily  to  the  light 

Her  chalice  reared  of  silver  bright; 

The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 

Begemmed  with  dew-drops,  led  her  fawn; 

The  grey  mist  left  the  mountain  side, 

The  torrent  showed  its  glistening  pride; 

Invisible  in  flecked  sky, 

The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry: 

The  blackbird  and  the  speckled  thrush 

Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush; 

In  answer  cooed  the  cushat  dove. 

Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 


No  thought  of  peace,  no  thought  of  rest, 
Assuaged  the  storm  in  Roderick's  breast. 
With  sheathed  broadsword  in  his  hand. 
Abrupt  he  paced  the  islet  strand, 
And  eyed  the  rising  sun,  and  laid 
His  hand  on  his  impatient  blade. 
Beneath  a  rock,  his  vassals'  care 
Was  prompt  the  ritual  to  prepare. 
With  deep  and  deathful  meaning  fraught. 
For  such  Antiquity  had  taught 
Was  preface  meet,  ere  yet  abroad 
The  Cross  of  Fire  should  take  its  road. 
The  shrinking  band  stood  oft  aghast 
At  the  impatient  glance  he  cast ;  — 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  367 

Such  glance  the  mountain  eagle  threw,  ' 

As,  from  the  cliffs  of  Ben-venue, 

She  spread  her  dark  sails  on  the  wind, 

And  high  in  middle  heaven  reclined. 

With  her  broad  shadow  on  the  lake, 

Silenced  the  warblers  of  the  brake. 


A  heap  of  withered  boughs  was  piled, 

Of  juniper  and  rowan  wild, 

Mingled  with  shivers  from  the  oak, 

Rent  by  the  lightning's  recent  stroke. 

Brian  the  Hermit  by  it  stood. 

Barefooted,  in  his  frock  and  hood. 

His  grisled  beard  and  matted  hair 

Obscured  a  visage  of  despair; 

His  naked  arms  and  legs,  seamed  o'er, 

The  scars  of  frantic  penance  bore. 

That  Monk,  of  savage  form  and  face. 

The  impending  danger  of  his  race 

Had  drawn  from  deepest  solitude. 

Far  in  Benharrow's  bosom  rude. 

Not  his  the  mien  of  Christian  priest 

But  Druid's,  from  the  grave  released, 

Whose  hardened  heart  and' eye  might  brook 

On  human  sacrifice  to  look. 

And  much,  'twas  said,  of  heathen  lore 

Mixed  in  the  charms  he  muttered  o'er; 

The  hallowed  creed  gave  only  worse 

And  deadlier  emphasis  of  curse. 

No  peasant  sought  that  Hermit's  prayer. 

His  cave  the  pilgrim  shunned  with  care. 

The  eager  huntsman  knew  his  bound, 

And  in  mid  chase  called  off  his  hound ; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Or  if,  in  lonely  glen  or  strath, 

The  desert-dweller  met  his  path, 

He  prayed,  and  signed  the  cross  between, 

While  terror  took  devotion's  mien. 


Of  Brian's  birth  strange  tales  were  told. 
His  mother  watched  a  midnight  fold, 
Built  deep  within  a  dreary  glen. 
Where  scattered  lay  the  bones  of  men, 
In  some  forgotten  battle  slain. 
And  bleached  by  drifting  wind  and  rain. 
It  might  have  tamed  a  warrior's  heart. 
To  view  such  mockery  of  his  art! 
The  knot-grass  fettered  there  the  hand, 
Which  once  could  burst  an  iron  band ; 
Beneath  the  broad  and  ample  bone, 
That  bucklered  heart  to  fear  unknown, 
A  feeble  and  a  timorous  guest, 
The  field-fare  framed  her  lowly  nest; 
There  the  slow  blind-worm  left  his  slime 
On-  the  fleet  limbs  that  mocked  at  time ; 
And  there,  too,  lay  the  leader's  skull. 
Still  wreathed  with  chaplet  flushed  and  full, 
For  heath-bell,  with  her  purple  bloom. 
Supplied  the  bonnet  and  the  plume. 
All  night,  in  this  sad  glen  the  maid 
Sate  shrouded  in  her  mantle's  shade: 
—  She  said,  no  shepherd  sought  her  side. 
No  hunter's  hand  her  snood  untied, 
Yet  ne'er  again  to  braid  her  hair 
The  virgin  snood  did  Alice  wear: 
Gone  was  lier  maiden  glee  and  sport. 
Her  maiden  girdle  all  too  short, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  t 

Nor  sought  she,  from  that  fatal  night, 
Or  holy  church  or  blessed  rite, 
But  locked  her  secret  in  her  breast, 
And  died  in  travail,  unconfessed. 

Alone,  among  his  young  compeers. 

Was  Brian  from  his  infant  years; 

A  moody  and  heart-broken  boy, 

Estranged  from  sympathy  and  joy, 

Bearing  each  taunt  which  careless  tongue 

On  his  mysterious  lineage  flung. 

Whole  nights  he  spent  by  moonlight  pale, 

To  wood  and  stream  his  hap  to  wail. 

Till,  frantic,  he  as  truth  received 

What  of  his  birth  the  crowd  believed. 

And  sought,  in  mist  and  meteor  fire, 

To  meet  and  know  his  Phantom  Sire! 

In  vain  to  soothe  his  wayward  fate. 

The  cloister  oped  her  pitying  gate ; 

In  vain,  the  learning  of  the  age 

Unclasped  the  sable-lettered  page;    ,. 

Even  in  its  treasures  he  could  find 

Food  for  the  fever  of  his  mind. 

Eager  he  read  whatever  tells 

Of  magic,  cabala,  and  spells, 

And  every  dark  pursuit  allied 

To  curious  and  presumptuous  pride. 

Till,  with  fired  brain  and  nerves  o'erstrung, 

And  heart  with  mystic  horrors  wrung. 

Desperate  he  sought  Benharrow's  den. 

And  hid  him  from  the  haunts  of  men. 

The  desert  gave  him  visions  wild. 
Such  as  might  suit  the  Spectre's  child. 


2ffO  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Where  with  black  cliffs  the  torrents  toil, 

He  watched  the  wheeling  eddies  boil, 

Till,  from  their  foam,  his  dazzled  eyes 

Beheld  the  river  demon  rise; 

The  mountain  mist  took  form  and  limb 

Of  noontide  hag  or  goblin  grim; 

The  midnight  wind  came  wild  and  dread. 

Swelled  with  the  voices  of  the  dead  ; 

Far  on  the  future  battle-heath 

His  eye  beheld  the  ranks  of  death: 

Thus  the  lone  Seer,  from  mankind  hurled, 

Shaped  forth  a  disembodied  world. 

One  lingering  sympathy  of  mind 

Still  bound  him  to  the  mortal  kind; 

The  only  parent  he  could  claim 

Of  ancient  Alpine's  lineage  came. 

Late  had  he  heard,  in  prophet's  dream, 

The  fatal  Ben-Shie's  boding  scream; 

Sounds,  too,  had  come  in  midnight  blast. 

Of  charging  steeds,  careering  fast 

Along  Benharrow's  shingly  side. 

Where  mortal  horseman  ne'er  might  ride ; 

The  thunderbolt  had  split  the  pine  — 

All  augured  ill  to  Alpine's  line. 

He  girt  his  loins,  and  came  to  show 

The  signals  of  impending  wo. 

And  now  stood  prompt  to  bless  or  ban. 

As  bade  the  Chieftain  of  his  clan. 


'Twas  all  prepared  —  and  from  the  rock, 
A  goat,  the  patriarch  of  the  flock. 
Before  the  kindling  pile  was  laid. 
And  pierced  by  Roderick's  ready  blade. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  371 

Patient  the  sickening  victim  eyed 
The  life-blood  ebb  in  crimson  tide, 
Down  his  clogged  beard  and  shaggy  limb, 
Till  darkness  glazed  his  eyeballs  dim. 
The  grisly  priest,  with  murmuring  prayer, 
A  slender  crosslet  framed  with  care. 
A  cubit's  length  in  measure  due ; 
The  shaft  and  limbs  were  rods  of  yew, 
Whose  parents  in  Inch-Cailliach  wave 
Their  shadows  o'er  Clan-Alpine's  grave, 
And,  answering  Lomond's  breezes  deep, 
Soothe  many  a  chieftain's  endless  sleep. 
The  Cross,  thus  formed,  he  held  on  high, 
With  wasted  hand  and  haggard  eye, 
And  strange  and  mingled  feelings  woke, 
While  his  anathema  he  spoke. 

"  Wo  to  the  clansman,  Avho  shall  view 
This  symbol  of  sepulchral  yew, 
Forgetful  that  its  branches  grew 
Where  weep  the  heavens  their  holiest  dew 

On  Alpine's  dwelling  low  !         ,  - 
Deserter  of  his  Chieftain's  trust. 
He  ne'er  shall  mingle  with  their  dust, 
But  from  his  sires  and  kindred  thrust, 
Each  clansman's  execration  just 

Shall  doom  him  wrath  and  wo." 
He  paused  —  the  word  the  vassals  took. 
With  forward  step  and  fiery  look. 
On  high  their  naked  brands  they  shook. 
Their  clattering  targets  wildly  strook ; 

And  first,  in  murmur  low. 
Then,  like  the  billow  in  his  course, 
That  far  to  seaward  finds  his  source. 


372  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LA^CE. 

And  flings  to  shore  his  mustered  force, 
Burst,  with  loud  roar,  their  answer  hoarse, 

"  Wo  to  the  traitor,  wo  !  " 
Ben-an's  gray  scalp  the  accents  knew. 
The  joyous  wolf  from  covert  drew, 
The  exulting  eagle  screamed  afar  — 
.  They  knew  the  voice  of  Alpine's  war. 

The  shout  was  hushed  on  lake  and  fell, 
The  Monk  resumed  his  muttered  spell. 
Dismal  and  low  its  accents  came. 
The  while  he  scathed  the  Cross  with  flame; 
And  the  few  words  that  reached  the  air. 
Although  the  holiest  name  was  there, 
Had  more  of  blasphemy  than  prayer. 
But  when  he  shook  above  the  crowd 
Its  kindled  points,  he  spoke  aloud:  — 
"Wo  to  the  wretch,  who  fails  to  rear 
At  this  dread  sign  the  ready  spear! 
For,  as  the  flames  this  symbol  sear. 
His  home,  the  refuge  of  his  fear, 

A  kindred  fate  shall  know; 
Far  o'er  its  roof  the  volumed  flame 
Clan-Alpine's  vengeance  shall  proclaim, 
While  maids  and  matrons  on  his  name 
Shall  call  down  wretchedness  and  shame. 

And  infamy  and  wo  !  " 
Then  rose  the  cry  of  females,  shrill 
As  goss-hawk's  whistle  on  the  hill. 
Denouncing  misery  and  ill. 
Mingled  with  childhood's  babbling  trill 

Of  curses  stammered  slow ; 
Answering,  with  imprecation  dread, 
"Sunk  be  his  home  in  embers  red! 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  373 

And  cursed  be  the  meanest  shed 
That  e'er  shall  hide  the  houseless  head 

We  doom  to  want  and  wo!" 
A  sharp  and  shrieking  echo  gave, 
Coir-Uriskin,  thy  goblin  cave! 
And  the  gray  pass  where  birches  wave, 

On  Beala-nam-bo. 

Then  deeper  paused  the  priest  anew, 
And  hard  his  laboring  breath  he  drew, 
While,  with  set  teeth  and  clenched  hand, 
And  eyes  that  glowed  like  fiery  brand. 
He  meditated  curse  more  dread, 
And  deadlier,  on  the  clansman's  head, 
Who  summoned  to  his  Chieftain's  aid, 
The  signal  saw  and  disobeyed. 
The  crosslet's  points  of  sparkling  wood, 
He  quenched  among  the  bubbling  blood, 
And  as  again  the  sign  he  reared. 
Hollow  and  hoarse  his  voice  was  heard : 
"When  flits  this  Cross  from  man  to  man, 
Vich-Alpine's  summons  to  his  clan. 
Burst  be  the  ear  that  fails  to  heed! 
Palsied  the  foot  that  shuns  to  speed! 
May  ravens  tear  the  careless  eyes! 
Wolves  make  the  coward  heart  their  prize! 
As  sinks  the  blood-stream  in  the  earth. 
So  may  his  heart's-blood  drench  his  hearth! 
As  dies  in  hissing  gore  the  spark, 
Quench  thou  his  light,  Destruction  dark, 
And  be  the  grace  to  him  denied, 
Bought  by  this  sign  to  all  beside!" 
He  ceased;  no  echo  gave  agen 
The  murmur  of  the  deep  Amen. 


374  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Then  Roderick,  Avith  impatient  look, 

From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took ; 

"  Speed,  Malise,  speed ! "  he  said,  and  gave 

The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave  ; 

"  The  muster-place  be  Lanric  mead  — 

Instant  the  time  —  speed,  Malise,  speed  !  " 

Like  heath-bird,  when  the  hawks  pursue, 

A  barge  across  Loch-Katrine  flew ; 

High  stood  the  henchman  on  the  prow ; 

So  rapidly  the  barge-men  row. 

The  bubbles,  where  they  launched  the  boat, 

Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat, 

Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  still, 

When  it  had  neared  the  mountain  hill ; 

And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 

Still  was  the  plow  three  fathoms  wide, 

When  lightly  bounded  to  the  land. 

The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 


Speed,  Malise,  speed !  the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied. 
Speed,  Malise  speed  !  such  cause  of  haste 
Thine  active  sinews  never  braced. 
Bend  'gainst  the  ste;epy  hill  thy  breast. 
Burst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest; 
With  short  and  springing  footsteps  pass 
The  trembling. bog  and  false  morass; 
Across  the  brook  like  roebuck  bound. 
And  thread  the  brakes  like  questing  hound; 
The  crag  is  high,  the  scaur  is  deep, 
Yet  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap: 
Parched  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow, 
Yet  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now ; 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  375 

Herald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear. 

Stretch  onward  in  thy  fleet  career ! 

The  wounded  hind  thou  irack'st  not  now, 

Pursu'st  not  maid  through  greenwood  bough, 

Nor  pliest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace 

With  rivals  in  the  mountain  race  ; 

But  danger,  death,  and  warrior  deed 

Are  in  thy  course  —  Speed,  Malise,  speed  ! 


Fast  as  the  fatal  symbol  flies, 
In  arms  the  huts  and  hamlets  rise  ; 
From  winding  glen,  from  upland  brown, 
They  poured  each  hardy  tenant  down. 
Nor  slacked  the  messenger  his  pace ; 
He  showed  the  sign,  he  named  the  place, 
And,  pressing  forward  like  the  wind, 
Lefl  clamor  and  surprise  behind. 
The  fisherman  forsook  the  strand, 
The  swarthy  smith  took  dirk  and  brand. 
With  changed  cheer,  the  mower  blithe 
Left  in  half-cut  swathe  his  scythe; 
The  herds  without  a  keeper  strayed. 
The  plough  was  in  mid-furrow  staid. 
The  falc'ner  tossed  his  hawk  away, 
The  hunter  left  the  stag  at  bay; 
Prompt  at  the  signal  of  alarms, 
Each  son  of  Alpine  rushed  to  arms ; 
So  swept  the  tumult  and  affray 
Along  the  margin  of  Achray. 
Alas,  thou  lovely  lake  !  that  e'er 
Thy  banks  should  echo  sounds  of  fear! 
The  rocks,  the  bosky  thickets,  sleep 
So  stilly  on  thy  bosom  deep, 


376  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.   . 

The  lark's  blithe  carol  from  the  cloud, 

Seems  for  the  scene  too  gaily  loud. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed!  the  lake  is  past, 

Duncraggan's  huts  appear  at  last, 

And  peep,  like  moss-grown  rocks,  half  seen, 

Half  hidden  in  the  copse  so  green; 

There  may'st  thou  rest,  thy  labor  done, 

Their  Lord  shall  speed  the  signal  on. 

As  stoops  the  hawk  upon  his  prey. 

The  henchman  shot  him  down  the  way. 

—  What  woful  accents  load  the  gale? 

The  funeral  yell,  the  female  wail! 

A  gallant  hunter's  sport  is  o'er, 

A  valiant  warrior  fights  no  more. 

Who,  in  the  battle  or  the  chase. 

At  Roderick's  side  shall  fill  his  place!  — 

Within  the  hall,  where  torch's  ray 

Supplies  the  excluded  beams  of  day. 

Lies  Duncan  on  his  lowly  bier, 

And  o'er  him  streams  his  widow's  tear. 

His  stripling  son  stands  mournful  by, 

His  youngest  weeps,  but  knows  not  why; 

The  village  maids  and  matrons  round 

The  dismal  coronach  resound. 

CORANACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  l»st  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  foui^tain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest 
The  font,  re-appearing. 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  377 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Take^the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  tlie  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory ; 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flQwer  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,^  c^-^-^w-t^ 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber,         " 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountam. 


i  Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 


Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 
Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever! 

See  Stumah,  who,  the  bier  beside. 

His  master's  corpse  with  wonder  eyed  — 

Poor  Stumah  !  whom  his  least  halloo 

Could  send  like  lightning  o'er  the  dew, 

Bristles  his  crest,  and  points  his  ears, 

As  if  some  stranger  step  he  hears. 

'Tis  not  a  mourner's  mufiled  tread. 

Who  comes  to  sorrow  o'er  the  dead. 

But  headlong  haste,  or  deadly  fear. 

Urge  the  precipitate  career. 

All  stand  aghast :  —  unheeding  all. 

The  henchman  bursts  into  the  hall ! 

Before  the  dead  man's  bier  he  stood. 

Held  forth  the  Cross  besmeared  with  blood ! 

"The  muster-place  is  Lanrick  mead; 

Speed  forth  the  signal!  clansmen, ' speed  !  " 

35 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Angus,  the  heir  of  Duncan's  line, 
Sprang  forth  and  seized  the  fatal  sign. 
In  haste  the  stripling  to  his  side 
His  father's  dirk  and  broadsword  tied ; 
But  when  he  saw  his  mother's  eye 
Watch  him  in  speechless  agony, 
Back  to  her  opened  arms  he  flew, 
Pressed  on  her  lips  a  fond  adieu, 
"  Alas  !  "  she  sobbed  — "  and  yet  be  gone, 
And  speed  thee  forth,  like  Duncan's  son!" 
One  look  he  cast  upon  the  bier, 
Dashed  from  his  eye  the  gathering  tear. 
Breathed  deep,  to  clear  his  laboring  breast, 
And  tossed  aloft  his  bonnet  crest, 
Then,  like  the  high-bred  colt  when  freed, 
First  he  essays  his  fire  and  speed, 
He  vanished,  and  o'er  moor  and  moss 
Sped  forward  with  the  Fiery  Cross. 
Suspended  was  the  widow's  tear. 
While  yet  his  footsteps  she  could  hear; 
And  when  she  marked  the  henchman's  eye 
Wet  with  unwonted  sympathy, 
"Kinsman,"  she  said,  "his  race  is  run. 
That  should  have  sped  thine  errand  on; 
The  oak  has  fallen  —  the  sapling  bough 
Is  all  Duncraggan's  shelter  now. 
Yet  trust  I  well,  his  duty  done, 
The  orphan's  God  will  guard  my  son. 
And  you,  in  many  a  danger  true, 
At  Duncan's  best  your  blades  that  drew, 
To  arms,  and  guard  that  orphan's  head! 
Let  babes  and  women  wail  the  dead." 
Then  weapon-clang,  and  martial  call. 
Resounded  through  the  funeral  hall. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  379 

While  from  tile  walls  the  attendant  band 

Snatched  sword  and  targe,  with  hurried  hand, 

And  short  and  flitting  energy 

Glanced  from  the  mourner's  sunken  eye. 

As  if  the  sounds  to  warrior  dear 

Might  rouse  her  Duncan  from  his  bier. 

But  faded  soon  that  borrowed  force; 

Gr'ef  claimed  his  right,  and  tears  their  course. 


Benledi  saw.  the  Cross  of  Fire, 

It  glanced  like  lightning  up  Strath-Ire. 

O'er  dale  and  hill  the  summons  flew. 

Not  rest  nor  pause  young  Angus  knew; 

The  tear  that  gathered  in  his  eye. 

He  left  the  mountain  breeze  to  dry; 

Until,  where  Teith's  young  waters  roll. 

Betwixt  him  and  a  wooded  knoll, 

That  grazed  the  sable  strath  with  green. 

The  chapel  of  Saint  Bride  was  seen. 

Swoln  was  the  stream,  remote  the  bridge, 

But  Angus  paused  not  on  the  edge ; 

Though  the  dark  waves  danced  dizzily. 

Though  reeled  his  sympathetic  eye. 

He  dashed  amid  the  torrent's  roar; 

His  right  hand  high  the  crosslet  bore. 

His  left  the  pole-axe  grasped,  to  guide 

And  stay  his  footing  in  the  tide. 

He  stumbled  twice  —  the  foam  splashed  high, 

With  hoarser  swell  the  stream  raced  by; 

And  had  he  fallen  —  for  ever  there. 

Farewell  Duncraggan's  orphan  heir! 

But  still,  as  if  in  parting  life. 

Firmer  he  grasped  the  Cross  of  strife, 


880  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Until  the  opposing  bank  he  g'ained, 
And  up  the  chapel  pathway  strained. 

A  blithesome  rout,  that  morning-  tide, 
Had  sought  the  chapel  of  Saint  Bride. 
Her  troth  Tombea's  Mary  gave 
To  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
And,  issuing  from  the  Gothic  arch, 
The  bridal  now  resumed  their  march. 
In  rude,  but  glad  procession,  came 
Bonnetted  sire  and  coif-clad  dame  : 
And  plaided  youth,  with  jest  and  jeer. 
Which  snooded  maiden  would  not  hear, 
And  children,  that,  unwitting  why, 
Lent  the  gay  shout  their  shrilly  cry; 
And  minstrels,  that  in  measures  vied 
Before  the  young  and  bonny  bride. 
Whose  downcast  eye  and  cheek  disclose 
The  tear  and  blush  of  morning  rose. 
With  virgin  step,  and  bashful  hand. 
She  held  the  kerchief's  snowy  band; 
The  gallant  bridegroom,  by  her  side, 
»     Beheld  his  prize  with  victor's  pride, 
And  the  glad  mother  in  her  ear 
Was  closely  whispering  word  of  cheer. 

Who  meets  them  at  the  church-yard  gate? 

The  messenger  of  fear  and  fate ! 

Haste  in  his  hurried  accent  lies, 

And  grief  is  swimming  in  his  eyes. 

All  dripping  from  the  recent  flood, 

Panting  and  travel-soiled  he  stood, 

The  fatal  sign  of  fire  and  sword 

Held  forth,  and  spoke  the  appointed  word: 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  381 

"The  muster-place  is  Lanrick  mead; 
Speed  forth  the  signal!  Norman,  speed!" 
And  must  he  change  so  soon  the  hand, 
Just  linked  to  his-by  holy  band. 
For  the  fell  cross  of  blood  and  brand? 
And  must  the  day,  so  blithe  that  rose, 
And  promised  rapture  in  the  close, 
Before  its  setting  hour,  divide 
The  bridegroom  from  the  plighted  bride? 
Oh  fatal  doom!  —  it  must!  it  must! 
Clan-Alpine's  cause,  her  Chieftain's  trust, 
Her  summons  dread,  brooks  no  delay ; 
Stretch  to  the  race  —  away  !  away ! 

Yet  slow  he  laid  his  plaid  aside, 
And,  lingering,  eyed  his  lovely  bride, 
Until  he  saw  the  starting  tear 
Speak  wo  he  might  not  stop  to  cheer; 
Then,  trusting  not  a  second  look. 
In  haste  he  sped  him  up  the  brook. 
Nor  backward  glanced  till  on  the  heath 
Where  Lubnaig's  lake  supplies  the  Teith. 
What  in  the  racer's  bosom  stirred? 
The  sickening  pang  of  hope  deferred, 
And  memory,  with  a  torturing  train 
Of  all  his  morning  visions  vain. 
Mingled  with  love's  impatience,  came 
The  manly  thirst  for  martial  fame ; 
The  stormy  joy  of  mountaineers. 
Ere  yet  they  rush  upon  the  spears ; 
And  zeal  for  clan  and  chieftain  burning. 
And  hope,  from  well-fought  field  returning, 
With  war's  red  honors  on  his  crest, 
To  clasp  his  Mary  to  his  breast. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Stung  by  such  thoughts,  o'er  bank  and  brae, 
Like  fire  from  flint  he  glanced  away, 
While  high  resolve,  and  feeling  strong, 
Burst  into  voluntary  song. 


SONG. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed. 
The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head. 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread, 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid, 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 
My  vesper-song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary! 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 

The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow; 

I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow. 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know; 
When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe. 
His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary! 

A  time  will  come  Avith  feeling  fraught! 
For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought. 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought. 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary ! 
And  if  returned  from  conquered  foes. 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close. 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose 

To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary! 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Not  faster  o'er  thy  heathery  braes, 
Balquidder,  speeds  the  midnight  blaze, 
Rushing  in  conflagration  strong, 
Thy  deep  ravines  and  dells  along. 
Wrapping  thy  cliffs  in  purple  glow, 
And  reddening  the  dark  lakes  below; 
Not  faster  speeds  it,  nor  so  far. 
As  o'er  thy  heaths  the  voice  of  war. 


The  signal  roused  to  martial  coil 

The  sullen  margin  of  Loch-Voil, 

Waked  still  Loch-Doine,  and  to  the  source 

Alarmed,  Balvaig,  thy  swampy  course; 

Thence  southward  turned  its  rapid  road 

Adown  Strath-Gartney's  valley  broad. 

Till  rose  in  arms  each  man  might  claim 

A  portion  in  Clan- Alpine's  name ; 

From  the  gray  sire,  whose  trembling  hand 

Could  hardly  buckle  on  his  brand. 

To  the  raw  boy,  whose  shaft  and  bow 

Were  yet  scarce  terror  to  the  crow. 

Each  valley,  each  sequestered  glen. 

Mustered  its  little  horde  of  men. 

That  met  as  torrents  from  the  height, 

In  Highland  dale  their  streams  unite. 

Still  gathering,  as  they  pour  along, 

A  voice  more  loud,  a  tide  more  strong, 

Till  at  the  rendezvous  they  stood 

By  hundreds,  prompt  for  blows  and  blood; 

Each  trained  to  arms  since  life  began, 

Owning  no  tie  but  to  his  clan, 

No  oath,  but  by  his  Chieftain's  hand. 

No  law,  but  Roderick  Dhu's  command. 


384  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

That  summer  morn  had  Roderick  Dhu 
Surveyed  the  skirts  of  Ben-venue, 
And  sent  his  scouts  o'er  hill  and  heath, 
To  view  the  frontiers  of  Menteith. 
All  backward  came  with  news  of  truce ; 
Still  lay  each  martial  Grseme  and  Bruce, 
In  Rednock  courts  no  horsemen  wait. 
No  banner  waved  on  Cardross  gate, 
On  Duchray's  towers  no  beacon  shone. 
Nor  scared  the  herons  from  Loch-Con; 
All  seemed  at  peace.     Now,  wot  ye  why 
The  Chieftain,  with  such  anxious  eye. 
Ere  to  the  muster  he  repair, 
This  western  frontier  scanned  with  care?- 
In  Ben-venue's  most  darksome  cleft, 
A  fair,  though  cruel  pledge  was  left; 
For  Douglas,  to  his  promise  true. 
That  morning  from  the  isle  withdrew, 
And  in  a  deep  sequestered  dell 
Had  sought  a  low  and  lonely  cell. 
By  many  a  bard  in  Celtic  tongue. 
Has  Coir-nan-Uriskin  been  sung; 
A  softer  name  the  Saxon  gave. 
And  called  the  grot  the  Goblin-cave. 


It  was  a  wild  and  strange  retreat. 
As  e'er  was  trod  by  outlaw's  feet. 
The  dell,  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 
Yawned  like  a  gash  on  warrior's  breast; 
Its  trench  had  stayed  full  many  a  rock, 
Hurled  by  primeval  earthquake  shock 
From  Ben-venue's  gray  summit  wild, 
And  here,  in  random  ruin  piled, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  385 

They  frowned  incumbent  o'er  the  spot, 
And  formed  the  rugged  sylvan  grot. 
The  oak  and  birch,  with  mingled  shade, 
At  noontide  tliere  a  twilight  made,  ^ 

Unless  when  short  and  sudden  shone 
Some  straggling  beam  on  cliff  or  stone, 
With  such  a  glimpse  as  prophet's  eye 
Gains  on  thy  depth,  Futurity. 
No  murmur  waked  the  solemn  still. 
Save  tinkling  of  a  fountain  rill; 
But  when  the  wind  chafed  with  the  lake, 
A  sullen  sound  would  upward  break. 
With  dashing  hollow  voice,  that  spoke 
The  incessant  war  of  wave  and  rock. 
Suspended  cliffs,  with  hideous  sway. 
Seemed  nodding  o'er  the  cavern  gray. 
From  such  a  den  the  wolf  had  sprung, 
In  such  the  wild  cat  leaves  her  young; 
Yet  Douglas  and  his  daughter  fair, 
Sought,  for  a  space,  their  safety  there. 
Gray  Superstition's  whisper  dread 
Debarred  the  spot  to  vulgar  tread; 
For  there,  she  said,  did  fays  resort. 
And  satyrs  hold  their  sylvan  court. 
By  moonlight  tread  their  mystic  maze. 
And  blast  the  rash  beholder's  gaze. 


Now  eve,  with  western  shadows  long. 
Floated  on  Katrine  bright  and  strong. 
When  Roderick,  with  a  chosen  few. 
Repassed  the  heights  of  Ben-venue. 
Above  the  Goblin-cave  they  go, 
Through  the  wild  pass  of  Beal-nam-bo; 

33 


38(f>  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

The  prompt  retainers  speed  before, 

To  launch  the  shallop  from  the  shore, 

For  cross  Loch-Katrine  lies  his  way 

Tg  view  the  passes  of  Achray, 

And  place  his  clansmen  in  array. 

Yet  lags  the  chief  in  musing  mind, 

Unwonted  sight,  his  men  behind. 

A  single  page,  to  bear  his  sword. 

Alone  attended  on  his  lord ; 

The  rest  their  way  through  thickets  break, 

And  soon  await  him  by  the  lake. 

It  was  a  fair  and  gallant  sight, 

To  view  them  from  the  neighboring  height, 

By  the  low-levelled  sunbeam's  light; 

For  strength  and  stature,  from  the  clan 

Each  warrior  was  a  chosen  man,  » 

As  even  afar  might  well  be  seen 

By  their  proud  step  and  martial  mien. 

Their  feathers  dance,  their  tartans  float. 

Their  targets  gleam,  as  by  the  boat 

A  wild  and  warlike  group  they  stand, 

That  well  became  such  mountain  strand. 


Their  Chief,  with  step  reluctant,  still 
Was  lingering  on  the  craggy  hili,^ 
Hard  by  where  turned  apart  the  road 
To  Douglas's  obscure  abode. 
It  was  but  with  that  dawning  morn 
That  Roderick  Dhu  had  proudly  sworn. 
To  drown  his  love  in  war's  wild  roar. 
Nor  think  of  Ellen  Douglas  more  ; 
But  he  who  stems  a  stream  with  sand. 
And  fetters  flame  with  flaxen  band, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Has  yet  a  harder  task  to  prove  — 

By  firm  resolve  to  conquer  love! 

Eve  finds  the  Chief,  like  restless  ghost, 

Still  hovering  near  his  treasure  lost; 

Fop  though  his  haughty  heart  deny 

A  parting  meeting  to  his  eye, 

Still  fondly  strains  his  anxious  ear 

The  accents  of  her  voice  to  hear, 

And  inly  did  he  curse  the  breeze 

That  waked  to  sound  the  rustling  trees. 

But,  hark!  what  mingles  in  the  strain? 

It  is  the  harp  of  Allan-bane, 

That  wakes  its  measures  slow  and  high, 

Attuned  to  sacred  minstrelsy. 

What  melting  voice  attends  the  strings? 

'Tis  Ellen,  or  an  angel,  sings ! 


HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

Ave  Maria!  maiden  mild! 

Listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer! 
Thou  canst  hear  though  from  the  wild, 

Thou  canst  save  amidst  despair. 

Safe  may  we  sleep  beneath  thy  care. 
Though  banished,  outcast,  and  reviled  — 

Maiden,  hear  a  maiden's  prayer! 
Mother,  hear  a  suppliant  child! 

Ave  Maria! 

Ave  Maria !  undefiled  ! 

The  flinty  couch  we  now  must  share, 
Shall  seem  with  down  of  eider  piled, 

If  thy  protection  hover  there. 


387 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

The  murky  cavern's  heavy  air 
Shall  breathe  of  balm  if  thou  hast  smiled; 

Then,  Maiden,  hear  a  maiden's  prayer! 
Mother,  list  a  suppliant  child! 

Jive  Maria! 

Ave  Maria!  Stainless  styled! 

Foul  demons  of  the  earth  and  air, 
From  this  their  wonted  haunt  exiled. 

Shall  flee  before  thy  presence  fair. 

We  bow  us  to  our  lot  of  care. 
Beneath  thy  guidance  reconciled ; 

Hear  for  a  maid  a  maiden's  prayer ! 
And  for  a  father  hear  a  child! 

Ave  Maria! 

Died  on  the  harp  the  closing  hymn  — 
Unmoved  in  attitude  and  limb. 
As  listening  still,  Clan-Alpine's  lord 
Stood  leaning  on  his  heavy  sword. 
Until  the  page,  with  humble  sign. 
Twice  pointed  to  the  sun's  decline. 
Then,  while  his  plaid  he  round  him  cast, 
"It  is  the  last  time— 'tis  the  last"  — 
He  muttered  thrice  —  "  the  last  time  e'er 
That  angel-voice  shall  Roderick  hear!" 
It  was  a  goading  thought — his  stride 
Hied  hastier  down  the  mountain  side; 
Sullen  he  flung  him  in  the  boat, 
And  instant  cross  the  lake  it  shot 
They  landed  in  that  silvery  bay. 
And  eastward  held  their  hasty  way. 
Till,  with  the  latest  beams  of  light. 
The  band  arrived  on  Lanrick  height. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  t* 

Where  mustered  in  the  vale  below, 
Clan-Alpine's  men  in  martial  show. 

A  various  scene  the  clansmen  made, 
Some  sate,  some  stood,  some  slowly  strayed; 
But  most,  with  mantles  folded  round. 
Were  couched  to  rest  upon  the  ground, 
Scarce  to  be  known,  by  curious  eye, 
From  the  deep  heather  where  they  lie. 
So  well  was  matched  the  tartan  screen 
With  heath-bell  dark  and  brackens  green; 
Unless  where,  here  and  there,  a  blade, 
Or  lance's  point,  a  glimmer  made. 
Like  glow-worm  twinkling  through  the  shade. 
But,  when,  advancing  through  the  gloom, 
They  saw  the  Chieftain's  eagle  plume. 
Their  shout  of  welcome,  shrill  and  wide, 
Shook  the  steep  mountain's  steady  side. 
Thrice  it  arose,  and  lake  and  fell 
Three  times  returned  the  martial  yell. 
It  died  upon  Bochastle's  plain, 
And  Silence  claimed  her  evening  reign. 
33* 


36BO  THE   LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


CANTO   FOURTH. 

THE   PUOPHECY. 

"  The  rose  is  fairest  when  'tis  budding  new, 

And  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns  from  ffears; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  washed  with  morning  dew, 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalmed  in  tears. 
Oh  wilding  rose,  whom  fancy  thus  endears, 
I  bid  your  blossoms  in  my  bonnet  wave, 
Emblem  of  hope  and  love  through  future  years !  '* 
Thus  spoke  young  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
What  time  the  sun  arose  on  Vennachar's  broad  wave. 

Such  fond  conceit,  half  said,  half  sung. 

Love  prompted  to  the  bridegroom's  tongue. 

All  while  he  stripped  the  wild-rose  spray, 

His  axe  and  bow  beside  him  lay. 

For  on  a  pass  'twixt  lake  and  wood, 

A  wakeful  sentinel  he  stood. 

Hark!  —  on  the  rock  a  footstep  rung. 

And  instant  to  his  arms  he  sprung. 

"Stand,  or  thou  diest!  —  What,  Malise?— soon 

Art  thou  returned  from  Braes  of  Doune. 

By  thy  keen  step  and  glance  I  know. 

Thou  bring'st  us  tidings  of  the  foe." 

(For  while  the  Fiery  Cross  hied  on. 

On  distant  scout  had  Malise  gone.) 

"  Where  sleeps  the  Chief?  "  the  henchman  said. 

"Apart,  in  yonder  misty  glade; 

To  his  lone  couch  I'll  be  your  guide." 

Then  called  a  slumberer  by  his  side, 


7HE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  391 

And  stirred  him  with  his  slackened  bow  — 
"  Up,  up,  Glentarkin  !  rouse  thee,  ho ! 
We  seek  the  Chieftain ;  on  the  track, 
Keep  eagle  watch  till  I  come  back." 

Together  up  the  pass  they  sped  : 

"  What  of  the  foeman  ?  "  Norman  said. 

"  Varying  reports  from  near  and  far ; 

This  certain  —  that  a  band  of  war 

Has  for  two  days  been  ready  boune, 

At  prompt  command,  to  march  from  Doune ; 

King  James,  the  while,  with  princely  powers,    * 

Holds  revelry  in  Stirling  towers. 

Soon  will  this  dark  and  gathering  cloud 

Speak  on  our  glens  in  thunder  loud. 

Inured  to  bide  such  bitter  bout. 

The  warrior's  plaid  may  bear  it  out; 

But,  Norman,  how  wilt  thou  provide 

A  shelter  for  thy  bonny  bride  ?  " 

"What!  know  ye  not  that  Roderick's  care 

To  the  lone  isle  hath  caused  repair 

Each  maid  and  matron  of  the  clan. 

And  every  child  and  aged  man 

Unfit  for  arms  ?  and  given  his  charge, 

Nor  skift'  nor  shallop,  boat  nor  barge, 

Upon  these  lakes  shall  float  at  large, 

But  all  beside  the  islet  moor, 

That  such  dear  pledge  may  rest  secure  ? " 

"  'Tis  well  advised  —  the  Chieftain's  plan 
Bespeaks  the  father  of  his  clan. 
But  wherefore  sleeps  Sir  Roderick  Dhu 
Apart  from  all  his  followers  true  ?  " 


392  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.^ 

"  It  is,  because  last  evening-tide 

Brian  an  augury  hath  tried, 

Of  that  dread  kind  which  must  not  be 

Unless  in  dread  extremity, 

The  Taghairm  called;  by  which,  afar, 

Our  sires  foresaw  the  events  of  war. 

Duncraggan's  milk-white  bull  they  slew 


"  Ah !  well  the  gallant  brute  I  knew, 
The  choicest  of  the  prey  we  had, 
When  swept  our  merry-men  Gallangad. 
His  hide  was  snow,  his  horns  were  dark, 
His  red  eye  glowed  like  fiery  spark; 
So  fierce,  so  tameless,  and  so  fleet, 
Sore  did  he  cumber  our  retreat, 
And  kept  our  stoutest  kernes  in  awe. 
Even  at  the  pass  of  Beal  'maha. 
But  steep  and  flinty  was  the  road, 
And  sharp  the  hurrying  pikeman's  goad, 
And  when  we  came  to  Dennan's  Row, 
A  child  might  scatheless  stroke  his  brow.** 


"  That  bull  was  slain ;  his  reeking  hide 
They  stretched  the  cataract  beside. 
Whose  waters  their  wild  tumult  toss 
Adown  the  black  and  craggy  boss 
Of  that  huge  cliflT,  whose  ample  verge 
Tradition  calls  the  Hero's  Targe. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  393 

Couched  on  a  shelve  beneath  its  brink. 

Close  where  the  thundering  torrents  sink, 

Rocking  beneath  their  headlong  sway. 

And  drizzled  by  the  ceaseless  spray, 

Midst  groan  of  rock,  and  roar  of  stream, 

The  wizard  waits  prophetic  dream. 

Nor  distant  rests  the  Chief:  —  but  hush! 

See,  gliding  slow  through  mist  and  bush, 

The  Hermit  gains  yon  rock,  and  stands 

To  gaze  upon  our  slumbering  bands. 

Seems  he  not,  Malise,  like  a  ghost, 

That  hovers  o'er  a  slaughtered  host? 

Or  raven  on  the  blasted  oak, 

That,  watching  while  the  deer  is  broke, 

His  morsel  claims  with  sullen  croak?" 

"  Peace !  peace !  to  other  than  to  me, 

Thy  words  were  evil  augury ; 

But  still  I  hold  Sir  Roderick's  blade 

Clan-Alpine's  omen  and  her  aid. 

Not  aught  that,  gleaned  from  heaven  or  hell, 

Yon  fiend-begotten  monk  can  tell. 

The  Chieftain  joins  him,  see  —  and  now, 

Together  they  descend  the  brow." 

And,  as  they  came  with  Alpine's  Lord 
The  Hermit  Monk  held  solemn  word: 
"  Roderick !  it  is  a  fearful  strife, 
For  man  endowed  with  mortal  life, 
Whose  shroud  of  sentient  clay  can  still 
Fell  feverish  pang  and  fainting  chill, 
Whose  eye  can  stare  in  stony  trance, 
Whose  hair  can  rouse  like  warrior's  lance  — 
'Tis  hard  for  such  to  view,  unfurled, 
The  curtain  of  the  future  world. 


904  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Yet  witness  every  quaking  limb, 
My  sunken  pulse,  mine  eyeballs  dim, 
.  My  soul  with  harrowing  anguish  torn, 
This  for  my  Chieftain  have  I  borne ! 
The  shapes  that  sought  my  fearful  couch, 
An  human  tongue  may  ne'er  avouch ; 
No  mortal  man  —  save  he,  who,  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Is  gifted  beyond  nature's  law. 
Had  e'er  survived  to  say  he  saw. 
At  length  the  fateful  answer  came. 
In  characters  of  living  flame ! 
Not  spoke  in  word,  nor  blazed  in  scroll, 
But  borne  and  branded  on  my  soul ; 
Which  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life, 
That  party  conquers  in  the  strife." 


"Thanks,  Brian,  for  thy  zeal  and  care! 
Good  is  thine  augury,  and  fair. 
Clan-Alpine  ne'er  in  battle  stood. 
But  first  our  broadswords  tasted  blood. 
A  surer  victim  still  I  know. 
Self-offered  to  the  auspicious  blow : 
A  spy  hath  sought  my  land  this  morn. 
No  eve  shall  witness  his  return ! 
My  followers  guard  each  pass's  mouth. 
To  east,  to  westward,  and  to  south ; 
Red  Murdoch,  bribed  to  be  his  guide. 
Has  charge  to  lead  his  steps  aside, 
Till,  in  deep  path  or  dingle  brown. 
He  light  on  those  shall  bring  him  down. 
But  see,  who  comes  his  news  to  show ! 
Malise !  what  tidinsfs  of  the  foe  ?  " 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  CJb 

"  At  Doune,  o'er  many  a  spear  and  glaive, 

Two  Barons  proud  their  banners  wave. 

I  saw  the  Moray's  silver  star, 

And  marked  the  sable  pale  of  Mar." 

"By  Alpine's  soul,  high  tidings  those! 

I  love  to  hear  of  worthy  foes. 

When  move  they  on?"    To-morrow's  noon 

Will  see  them  here  for  battle  boune." 

"Then  shall  it  see  a  meeting  stern!  — 

But,  for  the  place  —  say,  couldst  thou  learn 

Naught  of  the  friendly  clans  of  Earn? 

Strengthened  by  them  we  well  might  bide 

The  battle  on  Benledi's  side. 

Thou  couldst  not  ?  —  well !  Clan- Alpine's  men 

Shall  man  the  Trosachs'  shaggy  glen; 

Within  Loch-Katrine's  gorge  we'll  fight, 

All  in  our  maids'  and  matrons'  sight, 

Each  for  his  hearth  and  household  fire, 

Father  for  child,  and  son  for  sire  — 

Lover  for  maid  beloved! — but  why  — 

Is  it  the  breeze  affects  mine  eye  ? 

Or  dost  thou  come,  ill-omened  tear! 

A  messenger  of  doubt  or  fear? 

No!  sooner  may  the  Saxon  lance 

Unfix  Benledi  from  his  stance. 

Than  doubt  or  terror  can  pierce  through 

The  unyielding  heart  of  Roderick  Dhu; 

'Tis  stubborn  as  his  trusty  targe. 

Each  to  his  post!  — all  know  their  charge.** 

The  pibroch  sounds,  the  bands  advance, 

The  broadswords  gleam,  the  banners  dance, 

Obedient  to  the  Chieftain's  glance. 

I  turn  me  from  the  martial  roar, 

And  seek  Coir-Uriskin  once  more. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Where  is  the  Douglas  ?  —  he  is  gone ;  * 
And  Ellen  sits  on  the  gray  stone 
Fast  by  the  cave,  and  makes  her  moan; 
While  vainly  Allan's  words  of  cheer 
Are  poured  on  her  unheeding  ear. 
"  He  will  return  —  dear  lady,  trust !  — 
With  joy  return  ;  he  will  —  he  must ! 
Well  was  it  time  to  seek  afar 
Some  refuge  from  impending  war, 
When  e'en  Clan-Alpine's  rugged  swarm 
Are  cow'd  by  the  approaching  storm. 
I  saw  their  boats,  with  many  a  light, 
Floating  the  live-long  yesternight, 
Shifting  like  flashes  darted  forth 
By  the  red  streamers  of  the  north ; 
I  marked  at  morn  how  close  they  ride, 
Thick  moored  by  the  lone  islet's  side. 
Like  wild  ducks  couching  in  the  fen. 
When  stoops  the  hawk  upon  the  glen. 
Since  this  rude  race  dare  not  abide 
The  peril  on  the  mainland  side, 
Shall  not  thy  noble  father's  care 
Some  safe  retreat  for  thee  prepare  ? " 

"  No,  Allan,  no !  Pretext  so  kind 
My  wakeful  terrors  could  not  blind. 
When  in  such  tender  tone,  yet  grave, 
Douglas  a  parting  blessing  gave. 
The  tear  that  glistened  in  his  eye 
Drowned  not  his  purpose  fixed  and  high. 
My  soul,  though  feminine  and  weak, 
Can  image  his ;  e'en  as  the  lake. 
Itself  disturbed  by  slightest  stroke, 
Reflects  the  invulnerable  rock. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    JLAKE.  397 

He  hears  reports  of  battle  rife, 

He  deems  himself  the  cause  of  strife. 

I  saw  him  redden,  when  the  theme 

Turned,  Allan,  on  thine  idle  dream, 

Of  Malcolm  Graeme  in  fetters  bound. 

Which  I,  thou  said'st,  about  him  wound. 

Think'st  thou  he  trowed  thine  omen  aught? 

Oh  no !  'twas  apprehensive  thought 

For  the  kind  youth  —  for  Roderick  too  — 

(Let  me  be  just)  that  friends  so  true ; 

In  danger  botli,  and  in  our  cause ! 

Minstrel  the  Douglas  dare  not  pause. 

Why  else  that  solemn  warning  given, 

'If  not  on  earth  we  meet  in  heaven?' 

Why  else,  to  Cambus-kenneth's  fane, 

If  eve  return  him  not  again, 

Am  I  to  hie  and  make  me  known? 

Alas !  he  goes  to  Scotland's  throne, 

Buys  his  friends'  safety  with  his  own; 

He  goes  to  do  —  what  I  had  done, 

Had  Douglas'  daughter  been  his  son!" 

"Nay,  lovely  Ellen!  —  dearest,  nay! 
If  aught  should  his  return  delay, 
He  only  named  yon  holy  fane 
As  fitting  place  to  meet  again. 
Be  sure  he's  safe ;  and  for  the  Grseme, 
Heaven's  blessing  on  his  gallant  name ; 
My  visioned  sight  may  yet  prove  true, 
Nor  bode  of  ill  to  him  or  you. 
When  did  my  gifted  dream  beguile? 
Think  of  the  stranger  at  the  isle, 
And  think  upon  the  harpings  slow, 
That  presaged  this  approaching  wo! 

34 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Sooth  was  my  prophecy  of  fear ; 
Believe  it  when  it  augurs  cheer. 
Would  we  had  left  this  dismal  spot! 
Ill  luck  still  haunts  a  fairy  grot, 
Of  such  a  wond'rous  tale  I  know-^ 
Dear  lady,  change  that  look  of  wo ! 
JMy  heart  was  wont  thy  grief  to  cheer- 


"  Well,  be  it  as  thou  wilt ;  I  hear, 
But  cannot  stop  the  bursting  tear." 
The  Minstrel  tried  his  simple  art, 
But  distant  far  was  Ellen's  heart 


BALLAD. 

ALICE    BRAND. 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood. 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing. 

When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds  are  in  cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"Oh  Alice  Brand!  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold. 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

"  Oh  Alice !  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 
And  'twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 

That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight. 
Thy  brother  bold!  slew. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  399 

"Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech, 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive, 
For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 


"And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  iSngers  small, 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughtered  deer^ 

To  keep  the  cold  away." 

"Oh  Richard!  if  my  brother  died, 

'Twas  but  a  fatal  chance ; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried. 

And  Fortune  sped  the  lance. 

"  If  pall  and  van*  no  more  I  wear, 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet  gray, 

As  gay  the  forest  green. 

"And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land. 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 


BALLAD  —  CONTINUED. 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry  in  good  greenwood, 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing; 
On  the  beach's  pride,  and  the  oak's  brown  side, 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 


9  THE    LADT    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  won'd  within  the  hill  — 
Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruined  church, 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

"Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beach  and  oak, 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen  ? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 

The  fairy's  fatal  green? 

"  Up,  Urgan,  up !  to  yon  mortal  hie, 

For  thou  wert  christened  man ; 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  muttered  word  or  ban. 

"Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  withered  heart, 

-  The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye ; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would  part. 
Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die." 

BALLAD  —  CONTINUED, 

rris  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood. 
Though  the  birds  have  stilled  their  singing; 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise. 
And  Richard  is  faggots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands. 
And,  as  he  crossed  and  blessed  himself, 
"I  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

"That  is  made  with  bloody  hands." 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  401 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  upon  his  hand, 

'Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer."   . 


"Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood, 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand. 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 


Then  forward  stepped  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign  — 
"And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

"And  I  conjure  thee,  Demon  elf. 

By  him  whom  Demons  fear. 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself? 

And  what  thine  errand  here?" 


BALLAD  —  CONTINUED. 

"'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  Fairy-land, 

When  fairy  birds  are  singing, 
When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  monarch's  side, 

With  bit  and  bridle  ringing: 

"And  gaily  shines  the  Fairy-land  — 

But  all  is  glistening  show. 
Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

34* 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

"And  fading,  like  that  varied  gleam, 

Is  our  inconstant  shape, 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem, 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 

"It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 
When  the  Fairy  king  has  power, 
That  I  sank  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And,  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatched  away 
To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower. 

"But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold. 
Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 

I  might  regain  my  mortal  mold 
As  fair  a  form  as  tliine." 

She  crossed  him  once  —  she  crossed  him  twice  - 

That  lady  was  so  brave ; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue. 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  crossed  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mold, 

Her  brother,  Etliert  Brand ! 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing. 

But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline  gray, 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 


Just  as  the  minstrel's  sounds  were  staid, 
A  stranger  climbed  the  steepy  glade; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

His  martial  step,  his  stately  mien, 

His  hunting-suit  of  Lincoln  green. 

His  eagle  glance  remembrance  claims  — 

'Tis    Snowdoun's   Knight  —  'tis  James  Fitx- 

James  ! 
Ellen  beheld,  as  in  a  dream, 
Then  starting,  scarce  suppressed  a  scream: 
"Oh  stranger!  in  such  hour  of  fear. 
What  evil  hap  has  brought  thee  here  ?  ** 
•'  An  evil  hap  how  can  it  be. 
That  bids  me  look  again  on  thee  ? 
By  promise  bound,  my  former  guide 
Met  me  betimes  this  morning  tide. 
And  marshalled,  over  bank  and  bourne, 
The  happy  path  of  my  return." 
"The  happy  path!  —  what!  said  he  naught 
Of  war,  of  battle  to  be  fought, 
Of  guarded  pass  ?  "  —  "  No,  by  my  fait^ ! 
Nor  saw  I  aught  could  augur  scathe." 
"  Oh  haste  thee  Allan,  to  the  kern 
—  Yonder  his  tartans  I  discern; 
Learn  thou  his  purpose,  and  conjure 
That  he  will  guide  the  stranger  sure!  — 
What  prompted  thee,  unhappy  man? 
The  meanest  serf  in  Roderick's  clan 
Had  not  been  bribed  by  love  or  fear. 
Unknown  to  him,  to  guide  thee  here." 

"Sweet  Ellen,  dear  my  life  must  be. 

Since  it  is  worthy  care  from  thee ; 

Yet  life  I  hold  but  idle  breath. 

When  love  or  honor's  weighed  with  death. 

Then  let  me  profit  by  my  chance. 

And  speak  my  purpose  bold  at  once. 


403 


404  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

I  come  to  bear  thee  from  a  wild, 
Where  ne'er  before  such  blossom  smiled; 
By  this  soft  hand  to  lead  thee  far 
Ffom  frantic  scenes  of  feud  and  war. 
Near  Bochastle  my  horses  wait ; 
They  bear  us  soon  to  Stirling  gate. 
I'll  place  thee  in  a  lovely  bower, 

I'll  guard  thee  like  a  tender  flower " 

"Oh!  hush,  Sir  Knight!  'twere  female  art 

To  say  I  do  not  read  thy  heart; 

Too  much,  before,  my  selfish  ear 

Was  idly  soothed  my  praise  to  hear. 

That  fatSil  bait  hath  lured  thee  back. 

In  deathful  hour,  o'er  dangerous  track ; 

And  how,  oh  how  can  I  atone 

The  wreck  my  vanity  brought  on ! 

One  way  remains  —  I'll  tell  him  all — 

Yes,  struggling  bosom,  forth  it  shall! 

Thou,  whose  light  folly  bears  the  blame, 

Buy  thine  own  pardon  with  thy  shame! 

But  first  —  my  father  is  a  man 

Outlawed  and  exiled,  under  ban; 

The  price  of  blood  is  on  hife  head. 

With  me  'twere  infamy  to  wed. 

Still  would'st  thou  speak  ?  —  then  hear  the  truth ! 

Fitz-James,  there  is  a  noble  youth  — 

If  yet  he  is!  —  exposed  for  me 

And  mine  to  dread  extremity  — 

Thou  hast  the  secret  of  my  heart; 

Forgive,  be  generous,  and  depart" 

Fitz-James  knew  every  wily  train 

A  lady's  fickle  heart  to  gain. 

But  here  he  knew  and  felt  them  vain. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  405 

There  shot  no  glance  from  Ellen's  eye, 

To  give  her  steadfast  speech  the  lie; 

In  maiden  confidence  she  stood, 

Though  mantled  in  her  cheek  the  blood. 

And  told  her  love  with  such  a  sigh 

Of  deep  and  hopeless  agony. 

As  death  had  sealed  her  Malcolm's  doom, 

And  she  sat  sorrowing  on  his  tomb. 

Hope  vanished  from  Fitz-James's  eye, 

But  not  with  hope  fled  sympathy. 

He  proffered  to  attend  her  side, 

As  brother  would  a  sister  guide. 

"  Oh  !  little  knowest  thou  Roderick's  heart ! 

Safer  for  both  we  go  apart 

Oh  haste  thee,  and  from  Allan  learn, 

If  thou  may'st  trust  yon  wily  kern.'* 

With  hand  upon  his  forehead  laid,  ^ 

The  conflict  of  his  mind  to  shade, 

A  parting  step  or  two  he  made; 

Then,  as  some  thought  had  crossed  his  brain, 

He  paused,  and  turned,  and  came  again. 


"Hear,  lady,  yet,  a  parting  word!  — 
It  chanced  in  fight  that  my  poor  sword 
Preserved  the  life  of  Scotland's  lord. 
This  ring  the  grateful  Monarch  gave, 
And  bade,  when  I  had  boon  to  crave, 
To  bring  it  back,  and  boldly  claim 
The  recompense  that  I  would  name. 
Ellen,  I  am  no  courtly  lord. 
But  one  who  lives  by  lance  and  sword, 
Whose  castle  is  his  helm  and  shield, 
His  lordship,  the  embattled  field. 


40^ 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

What  from  a  prince  can  I  demand, 

Who  neither  reck  of  state  nor  land? 

Ellen,  thy  hand  —  the  ring  is  thine  ; 

Each  guard  and  usher  knows  the  sign. 

Seek  thou  the  king  without  delay; 

This  signet  shall  secure  thy  way ; 

And  claim  thy  suit,  whate'er  it  be, 

As  ransom  of  his  pledge  to  me." 

He  placed  the  golden  circlet  on. 

Paused  —  kissed  her  hand  —  and  then  was  gone. 

The  aged  Minstrel  stood  aghast, 

So  hastily  Fitz-James  shot  past 

He  joined  his  guide,  and  wending  down 

The  ridges  of  the  mountain  brown, 

Across  the  stream  they  took  their  way, 

That  joins  Loch-Katrine  to  Achray. 

All  in  the  Trosachs'  glen  was  still, 
Noontide  was  sleeping  on  the  hill : 
Sudden  his  guide  whooped  loud  and  high  — 
"  Murdoch  !  was  that  a  signal  cry  ?  " 
He  stammered  forth  —  "I  shout  to  scare 
Yon  raven  from  his  dainty  fare." 
He  looked  —  he  knew  the  raven's  prey, 
His  own  brave  steed :  —  "  Ah !  gallant  gray ! 
For  thee  —  for  me  perchance  —  'twere  well 
We  ne'er  had  seen  the  Trosachs'  dell. 
Murdoch,  move  first  —  but  silently ; 
Whistle  or  whoop,  and  thou  shalt  die." 
Jealous  and  sullen  on  they  fared. 
Each  silent,  each  upon  his  guard. 

Now  wound  the  path  its  dizzy  ledge 
Around  a  precipice's  edge, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  407 

When  lo !  a  wasted  female  form, 

Blighted  by  wrath  of  sun  and  storm, 

In  tattered  weeds  and  wild  array, 

Stood  on  a  cliff  beside  the  way, 

And  glancing  round  her  restless  eye 

Upon  the  wood,  the  rock,  the  sky, 

Seemed  naught  to  mark,  yet  all  to  spy. 

Her  brow  was  wreathed  with  gaudy  broom ; 

With  gesture  wild  she  waved  a  plume 

Of  feathers,  which  the  eagles  fling 

To  crag  and  cliff  from  dusky  wing 

Such  spoils  her  desperate  foot  had  sought, 

Where  scarce  was  footing  for  the  goat 

The  tartan  plaid  she  first  descried, 

And  shrieked,  till  all  the  rocks  replied; 

As  loud  she  laughed  when  near  they  drew, 

For  then  the  Lowland  garb  she  knew  ; 

And  then  her  hands  she  wildly  wrung. 

And  then,  she  wept,  and  then  she  sung. 

She  sung !  —  the  voice,  in  better  time. 

Perchance  to  harp  or  lute  might  chime  ; 

And  now,  though  strained  and  roughened,  still 

Rung  wildly  sweet  to  dale  and  hill. 

SONG. 

"They  bid  me  sleep,  they  bid  me  pray. 

They  say  my  brain  is  warped  and  wrung  — 

I  cannot  sleep  on  Highland  brae, 
I  cannot  pray  in  Highland  tongue. 

But  were  I  now  where  Allan  glides. 

Or  heard  my  native  Devan's  tides. 

So  sweetly  would  I  rest  and  pray 

That  heaven  would  close  my  wintery  day ! 


408  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

"'Twas  thus  my  hair  they  bade  me  braid, 
They  bade  me  to  the  church  repair; 

It  was  my  bridal  morn,  they  said, 

And  my  true-love  would  meet  me  there. 

But  wo  betide  the  cruel  guile, 

That  drowned  in  blood  the  morning  smile ! 

And  wo  betide  the  fairy  dream! 

1  only  waked  to  sob  and  scream." 

"Who  is  this  maid?  what  means  her  lay? 

She  hovers  o'er  the  hollow  way, 

And  flutters  wide  her  mantle  gray, 

As  the  lone  heron  spreads  his  wing, 

By  twilight,  o'er  a  haunted  spring." 

"'Tis  Blanche  of  Devan,"  Murdoch  said, 

"A  crazed  and  captive  Lowland  maid, 

Ta'en  on  the  morn  she  was  a  bride, 

When  Roderick  forayed  Devan-side. 

The  gay  bridegroom  resistance  made, 

And  felt  our  Chiefs  unconquered  blade. 

I  marvel  she  is  now  at  large, 

But  oft  she  'scapes  from  Maudlin's  charge ; 

Hence,  brain-sick  fool!"    He  raised  his  bow: 

"Now,  if  thou  strik'st  her  but  one  blow, 

I'll  pitch  thee  from  the  cliff  as  far 

As  ever  peasant  pitched  a  bar." 

"  Thanks,  champion,  thanks  ! "  the  Maniac  cried, 

And  pressed  her  to  Fitz-James's  side. 

"  See  the  gray  pennons  I  prepare. 

To  seek  my  true-love  through  the  air ! 

I  will  not  lend  that  savage  groom. 

To  break  his  fall,  one  downy  plume! 

No !  —  deep  amid  disjointed  stones. 

The  wolves  shall  batten  on  his  bones, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  409 

And  then  shall  his  detested  plaid, 
By  bush  and  briar  in  mid-air  staid, 
Wave  forth  a  banner  fair  and  free. 
Meet  signal  for  their  revelry." 


"Hush  thee,  poor  maiden,  and  be  still." 
"Oh!  thou  look'st  kindly,  and  I  will 
Mine  eye  has  dried  and  wasted  been. 
But  still  it  loves  the  Lincoln  green; 
And,  though  mine  ear  is  all  unstrung. 
Still,  still  it  loves  the  Lowland  tongue. 


For  oh  my  sweet  William  was  forester  true, 
He  s^le  poor  Blanche's  heart  away! 

His  coat  it  was  all  of  the  greenwood  hue, 
And  so  blithely  he  trilled  the  Lowland  lay! 


It  was  not  that  I  meant  to  tell .... 
But  thou  art  wise,  and  guessest  welL" 
Then,  in  a  low  and  broken  tone. 
And  hurried  note,  the  song  went  on. 
Still  on  the  Clansman,  fearfully. 
She  fixed  her  apprehensive  eye ; 
Then  turned  it  on  the  Knight,  and  then 
Her  look  glanced  wildly  o'er  the  glen. 


"  The  toils  are  pitched,  and  the  stakes  are  set. 

Ever  sing  merrily,  merrily ; 
The  bows  they  bend,  and  the  knives  they  whet, 

Hunters  live  so  cheerily. 

35 


410  THE    LADY    or    THE    LAKE. 

"It  was  a  stag-,  a  stag  of  ten, 
Bearing  his  branches  sturdily ; 

He  came  stately  down  the  glen, 
Ever  sing  hardily,  hardily. 

"It  was  there  he  met  with  a  wounded  doe, 

She  was  bleeding  deathfully ; 
She  warned  him  of  the  toils  below. 

Oh  so  faithfully,  faithfully! 

"  He  had  an  eye,  and  he  could  heed, 

Ever  sing  warily,  warily; 
He  had  a  foot,  and  he  could  speed  — 

Hunters  watch  so  narrowly." 


Fitz-James's  mind  was  passion-tossed. 
When  Ellen's  hints  and  fears  were  lost ; 
But  Murdoch's  shout  suspicion  wrought. 
And  Blanche's  song  conviction  brought. 
Not  like  a  stag  that  spies  the  snare. 
But  lion  of  the  hunt  aware. 
He  waved  at  once  his  blade  on  high, 
"  Disclose  thy  treachery  or  die !  " 
Forth  at  full  speed  the  Clansman  flew, 
But  in  his  race  his  bow  he  drew ; 
The  shaft  just  grazed  Fitz-James's  crest. 
And  thrilled  in  Blanche's  faded  breast 
Murdoch  of  Alpine !  prove  thy  speed, 
For  ne'er  had  Alpine's  son  such  need ! 
With  heart  of  fire,  and  foot  of  wind. 
The  fierce  avenger  is  behind ! 
Fate  judges  of  the  rapid  strife  — 
The  forfeit,  death  —  the  prize  is  life  . 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  411 

Thy  kindred  ambush  lies  before, 
Close  couched  upon  the  heathery  moor; 
Them  couldst  thou  reach  —  it  may  not  be  — 
Thine  ambushed  kin  thou  ne'er  shalt  see, 
The  jfiery  Saxon  gains  on  thee! 
Resistless  speeds  the  deadly  thrust, 
As  lightning  strikes  the  pine  to  dust; 
With  foot  and  hand  Fitz-James  must  strain, 
Ere  he  can  win  his  blade, again. 
Bent  o'er  the  fall'n,  with  falcon  eye, 
He  grimly  smiled  to  see  him  die ; 
Then  slowly  wended  back  his  way 
Where  the  poor  maiden  bleeding  lay. 

She  sate  beneath  the  birchen  tree, 

Her  elbow  resting  on  her  knee; 

She  had  withdrawn  the  fatal  shaft. 

And  gazed  on  it,  and  feebly  laughed. 

Her  wreath  of  broom  and  feathers  gray, 

Daggled  with  blood,  beside  her  lay. 

The  Knight  to  staunch  the  life-stream  tried  — 

"Stranger,  it  is  in  vain!"  she  cried; 

"This  hour  of  death  has  given  me  more 

Of  reason's  power  than  years  before ; 

For,  as  these  ebbing  veins  decay, 

My  frenzied  visions  fade  away. 

A  helpless  injured  wretch  I  die, 

And  something  tells  me  in  thine  eye. 

That  thou  wert  mine  avenger  born. 

Seest  thou  this  tress  ?    Oh !  still  I've  worn 

This  little  tress  of  yellow  hair. 

Through  danger,  frenzy,  and  despair! 

It  once  was  bright  and  clear  as  thine. 

But  blood  and  tears  have  dimmed  its  shine. 


4Vi  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

I  will  not  tell  thee  when  'twas  shred, 
Nor  from  what  guiltless  victim's  head  — 
My  brain  would  turn!  —  but  it  shall  wave 
Like  plumage  on  thy  helmet  brave, 
Till  sun  and  wind  shall  bleach  the  stain, 
And  thou  will  bring  it  me  again. 
I  waver  still !  —  Oh  God !  more  bright 
Let  Reason  beam  her  parting  light!  — 
Oh!  by  thy  knighthood's  honored  sign, 
And  for  thy  life  preserved  by  mine, 
When  thou  shalt  see  a  darksome  man, 
Who  boasts  him  Chief  of  Alpine's  clan, 
With  tartans  broad  and  shadowy  plume, 
And  hand  of  blood,  and  brow  of  gloom. 
Be  thy  heart  bold,  thy  weapon  strong. 
And  wreak  poor  Blanche  of  Devan's  wrong !  — 
They  watch  for  thee  by  pass  and  fell . . . 
Avoid  the  path  ...  Oh  God  ! . . .  farewell ! " 

A  kindly  heart  had  brave  Fitz-James, 

Fast  poured  his  eye  at  pity's  claims; 

And  now,  with  mingled  grief  and  ire. 

He  saw  the  murdered  maid  expire, 

"God,  in  my  need,  be  my  relief. 

As  I  wreak  this  on  yonder  Chief!"  — 

A  lock  from  Blanche's  tresses  fair 

He  blended  with  her  bridegroom's  hair; 

The  mingled  braid  in  blood  he  dyed. 

And  placed  it  on  his  bonnet  side: 

"By  Him  whose  word  is  truth!  I  swear 

No  other  favor  will  I  wear. 

Till  this  sad  token  I  embrue 

In  the  best  blood  of  Roderick  Dhu ! 

But  hark !  what  means  yon  faint  halloo  ? 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 


413 


The  chase  is  up — but  they  shall  know 
The  stag  at  bay's  a  dangerous  foe." 
Barred  from  the  known  but  guarded  way, 
Through  copse  and  cliffs  Fitz-James  must  stray, 
And  oft  must  change  his  desperate  track, 
By  stream  and  precipice  turned  back. 
Heartless,  fatigued,  and  faint,  at  length. 
From  lack  of  food  and  loss  of  strength, 
He  couched  him  in  a  thiqket  hoar. 
And  thought  his  toils  and  perils  o'er: — , 
"  Of  all  my  rash  adventures  past. 
This  frantic  feat  will  prove  the  last! 
Who  e'er  so  mad  but  might  have  guessed, 
That  all  this  Highland  hornet's  nest 
Would  muster  up  in  swarms  so  soon 
As  e'er  they  heard  of  bands  at  Doune .? 
Like  bloodhounds  now  they  search  me  out  — 
Hark,  to  the  whistle  and  the  shout! 
If  farther  through  the  wilds  I  go, 
I  only  fall  upon  the  foe; 
I'll  couch  me  here  till  evening  gray. 
Then  darkling  try  my  dangerous  way." 


The  shades  of  eve  come  slowly  down. 

The  woods  are  wrapped  in  deeper  brown, 

The  owl  awakens  from  her  dell. 

The  fox  is  heard  upon  the  fell ; 

Enough  remains  of  glimmering  light 

To  guide  the  wanderer's  steps  aright. 

Yet  not  enough  from  far  to  show 

His  figure  to  the  watchful  foe. 

With  cautious  step,  and  ear  awake. 

He  climbs  the  crag  and  threads  the  brake; 


i^  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And  not  the  summer  solstice,  there, 

Tempered  the  midnight  mountain  air, 

But  every  breeze  that  swept  the  wold, 

Benumbed  his  drenched  limbs  with  cold. 

In  dread,  in  danger,  and  alone, 

Famished  and  chilled,  through  ways  unknown, 

Tangled  and  steep,  he  journeyed  on ; 

Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turned, 

A  watch-fire  close  before  him  burned. 

Beside  its  embers  red  and  clear. 

Basked,  in  his  plaid,  a  mountaineer; 

And  up  he  sprung,  with  sword  in  hand  — 

"  Thy  name  and  purpose  !  Saxon,  stand ! " 

"A  stranger."     "What  dost  thou  require!*' 

"Rest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 

My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost. 

The  gale  has  chilled  my  limbs  with  frost" 

"  Art  thou  a  friend  to  Roderick  !  "     "  No." 

"Thou  darest  not  call  thyself  his  foe?" 

"I  dare  !  to  him  and  all  the  band 

He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand." 

"  Bold  words  !  —  but,  though  the  beast  of  game 

The  privilege  of  chase  may  claim. 

Though  space  and  law  the  stag  we  lend, 

Ere  hounds  we  slip,  or  bow  we  bend, 

Who  ever  recked,  where,  how,  or  when. 

The  prowling  fox  was  trapped  or  slain? 

Thus,  treacherous  scouts  —  yet  sure  they  lie, 

Who  say  thou  cam'st  a  secret  spy ! " 

"They  do,  by  Heaven!     Come  Roderick  Dhu, 

And  of  his  clan  the  boldest  two, 

And  let  me  but  till  morning  rest, 

I  write  the  falsehood  on  their  crest" 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  415 

"If  by  the  blaze  I  mark  aright, 

Thou  bear'st  the  belt  and  spur  of  Knight" 

"Then,  by  these  tokens  may'st  thou  know, 

Each  proud  oppressor's  mortal  foe." 

"  Enough,  enough ;  sit  down  and  share 

A  soldier's  couch,  a  soldier's  fare." 


He  gave  him  of  his  Highland  cheer, 

The  hardened  flesh  of  mountain  deer; 

Dry  fuel  on  the  fire  he  laid, 

And  bade  the  Saxon  share  his  plaid. 

He  tended  him  like  welcome  guest. 

Then  thus  his  further  speech  addressed: 

"Stranger,  I  am  to  Roderick  Dhu 

A  clansman  born,  a  kinsman  true ; 

Each  word  against  his  honor  spoke. 

Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke; 

Yet  more  —  upon  thy  fate,  'tis  said, 

A  mighty  augury  is  laid. 

It  rests  with  me  to  wind  my  horn. 

Thou  art  with  numbers  overborne ; 

It  rests  with  me,  here,  brand  to  brand. 

Worn  as  thou  art,  to  bid  thee  stand: 

But  not  for  clan  nor  kindred's  cause. 

Will  I  depart  from  honor's  laws : 

To  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame, 

A  stranger  is  a  holy  name  ; 

Guidance  and  rest,  and  food  and  fire. 

In  vain  he  never  must  require. 

Then  rest  thee  here  till  dawn  of  day ; 

Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way, 

O'er  stock  and  stone,  through  watch  and  ward, 

Till  past  Clan- Alpine's  outmost  guiard. 


iJ6  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

As  far  as  Coilantogle's  ford  — 
From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword.** 
"I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  Heaven, 
As  freely  as  'tis  nobly  given ! " 
"Well,  rest  thee;  for  the  bittern's  cry 
Sings  us  the  lake's  wild  lullaby." 
With  that  he  shook  the  gathered  heath, 
And  spread  his  plaid  upon  the  wreath ; 
And  the  brave  foemen,  side  by  side, 
Lay  peaceful  down  like  brothers  tried, 
And  slept  until  the  dawning  beam 
Purpled  the  mountain  and  the  stream. 


CANTO    FIFTH. 


THE   COMBAT. 


Fair  as  the  earliest  beam  of  eastern  light, 
When  first,  by  the  bewildered  pilgrim  spied. 

It  smiles  upon  the  dreary  brow  of  night, 
And  silvers  o'er  the  torrent's  foaming  tide, 
And  lights  the  fearful  path  on  mountain  side; 

Fair  as  that  beam,  although  the  fairest  far. 
Giving  to  horror  grace,  to  danger  pride. 

Shine  martial  Faith,  and  Courtesy's  bright  star, 

Through  all  the  wreckful  storms  that  cloud  the  brow 
of  war. 


U^ 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  417 

That  early  beam,  so  fair  and  sheen,  / 

Was  twinkling  through  the  hazel  screen, 

When,  rousing  at  its  glimmer  red, 

The  warriors  left  their  lowly  bed, 

Looked  out  upon  the  dappled  sky, 

Muttered  their  soldier  matins  by, 

And  then  awaked  their  fire,  to  steal, 

As  short  and  rude,  their  soldier  meal. 

That  o'er,  the  Gael  around  him  threw, 

His  graceful  plaid  of  varied  hue. 

And,  true  to  promise,  led  the  way. 

By  thicket  green  and  mountain  gray. 

A  wildering  path!  they  winded  now 

Along  the  precipice's  brow. 

Commanding  the  rich  scenes  bene|ith. 

The  windings  of  the  Forth  and  Teith, 

And  all  the  vales  between  that  lie. 

Till  Stirling's  turrets  melt  in  sky ; 

Then,  sunk  in  copse,  their  farthest  glance 

Gained  not  the  length  of  horseman's  lance. 

'Twas  oft  so  steep,  the  foot  was  fain 

Assistance  from  the  hand  to  gain ; 

So  tangled  oft,  that,  bursting  through, 

Each  hawthorn  shed  her  showers  of  dew  — 

That  diamond  dew,  so  pure  and  clear, 

It  rivals  all  but  Beauty's  tear! 


At  length  they  came  where,  stem  and  steep,  ^^ 

The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep. 

Here  Vennachar  in  silver  flows, 

There,  ridge  on  ridge,  Benledi  rose ; 

Ever  the  hollow  path  twined  on. 

Beneath  steep  bank  and  threatening  stone; 


€18  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

An  hundred  men  might  hold  the  post 

With  hardihood  ag-ainst  a  host, 

The  rugged  mountain's  scanty  cloak 

Was  dwarfish  shrubs  of  birch  and  oak, 

With  shingles  bare,  and  cliffs  between, 

And  patches  bright  of  bracken  green, 

And  heather  black,  that  waved  so  high, 

It  held  the  copse  in  rivalry. 

But  where  the  lake  slept  deep  and  still. 

Dank  osiers  fringed  the  swamp  and  hill, 

And  oft  both  path  and  hill  were  torn. 

Where  wintry  torrent  down  had  borne, 

And  heaped  upon  the  cumbered  land 

Its  wreck  of  gravel,  rocks,  and  sand. 

So  toilsome  was  the  road  to  trace. 

The  guide,  abating  of  his  pace. 

Led  slowly  through  the  pass's  jaws, 

And  asked  Fitz-James,  by  what  strange  cause 

He  sought  these  wilds,  traversed  by  few. 

Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu? 


"  Brave  Gael,  my  pass,  in  danger  tried. 
Hangs  in  my  belt,  and  by  my  side ; 
Yet  sooth  to  tell,"  the  Saxon  said, 
"  I  dreamed  not  now  to  claim  its  aid. 
When  here,  but  three  days  since,  I  came. 
Bewildered  in  pursuit  of  game. 
All  seemed  as  peaceful  and  as  still. 
As  the  mist  slumbering  on  yon  hill ; 
Thy  dangerous  chief  Avas  then  afar, 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war. 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain  guide, 
Though  deep,  perchance,  the  villain  lied.** 


\y 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  419 


"  Yet  why  a  second  venture  try  ? " 
"  A  warrior  thou,  and  ask  me  why  ? 
Moves  our  free  course  by  such  fixed 
As  gives  the  poor  mechanic  laws? 
Enough,  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day ; 
Slight  cause  will  then  suffice  to  guide 
A  knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  widej 
A  falcon  flown,  a  grayhound  strayed, 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid; 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known, 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone." 


"Thy  secret  keep,  I  urge  thee  not; 
Yet,  ere  again  ye  sought  this  spot, 
Say,  heard  ye  naught  of  Lowland  war, 
Against  Clan- Alpine  raised  by  Mar?" 
"No,  by  my  word;  of  bands  prepared 
To  guard  King  James's  sports  I  heard; 
Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but,  when  they  hear 
This  muster  of  the  mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung, 
Which  else  in  Doune  had  peaceful  hung." 
"  Free  be  they  flung !  —  for  we  Avere  loth 
Their  silken  folds  should  feast  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung !  —  as  free  shall  wave 
Clan-Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 
But,  Stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewildered  in  the  mountain  game. 
Whence  the  bold  boast  by  which  you  show 
Vich-Alpine's  vowed  and  mortal  foe?"  — 
"Warrior,  but  yester-morn  I  knew 
Naught  of  thy  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


j  Save  as  an  outlawed  desperate  man, 

j  The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan, 

Who,  in  the  Regent's  court  and  sight, 
With  ruffian  dagger  stabbed  a  knight; 
Yet  this  alone  might  from  his  part 
j  Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart." 


U 


1 


Wrotful  at  such  arraignment  foul. 
Dark  lowered  the  Clansman's  sable  scow], 
A  space  he  paused,  then  sternly  said  — 
"And  heard'st  thou  why  he  drew  his  blade? 
Heard'st  thou  that  shameful  word  and  blow 
Brought  Roderick's  vengeance  on  his  foe  ? 
What  reck'd  the  Chieftain,  if  he  stood 
On  Highland  heath  or  Holy-Rood  ? 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given, 
If  it  were  in  the  court  of  heaven." 
"Still  was  it  outrage;  —  yet,  'tis  true. 
Not  then  claimed  sovereignty  his  due  ; 
While  Albany,  with  feeble  hand. 
Held  borrowed  truncheon  of  command. 
The  young  king,  mewed  in  Sterling  tower, 
Was  stranger  to  respect  and  power. 
But  then,  thy  Chieftain's  robber  life  !  — 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife. 
Wrenching  from  ruined  Lowland  swain 
His  herds  and  harvest  reared  in  vain  — 
Methinks  a  soul  like  thine  should  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  foray  borne." 


The  Gael  beheld  him  grim  the  while. 
And  answered  with  disdainful  smile  — 


THE    LADY    OK    THE    LAKE.  421 

"  Saxon,  from  yonder  mountain  high, 

I  marked  thee  send  delighted  eye, 

Far  to  the  south  and  east,  where  lay, 

Extended  in  succession  gay. 

Deep  waving  fields  and  pasture  green, 

With  gentle  slopes  and  groves  between :  — 

These  fertile  plains,  that  softened  vale, 

Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael ; 

The  stranger  came  with  iron  hand, 

And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 

Where  dwell  we  now  ?     See,  rudely  swell 

Crag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell. 

Ask  we  this  savage  hill  we  tread, 

For  fattened  steer  or  household  bread, 

Ask  we  for  flocks  these  shingles  dry. 

And  well  the  mountain  might  reply  — 

'  To  you,  as  to  your  sires  of  yore. 

Belong  the  target  and  claymore ! 

I  give  you  shelter  in  my  breast. 

Your  own  good  blades  must  win  the  rest* 

Pent  in  this  fortress  of  the  North, 

Think'st  thou  we  will  not  sally  forth. 

To  spoil  the  spoiler  as  we  may. 

And  from  the  robber  rend  the  prey .'' 

Ay,  by  my  soul !  —  While  on  yon  plain 

The  Saxon  rears  one  shock  of  grain ; 

While,  of  ten  thousand  herds,  there  strays 

But  one  along  yon  river's  maze  — 

The  Gael,  of  plain  and  river  heir. 

Shall,  with  strong  hand,  redeem  his  share. 

Where  live  the  mountain  chiefs,  who  hold 

That  plundering  Lowland  field  and  fold 

Is  aught  but  retribution  true  ? 

Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderick  Dhu." 

36 


^Q  THE    LADT    OF    THE    LAKE. 

,        Answered  Fitz-James  —  "  And,  if  I  sought, 
^       Think'st  thou  no  other  could  be  brought? 
-    What  deem  ye  of  ray  path  waylaid, 
My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade  ?  " 
"As  of  a  meed  to  rashness  due: 
Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true  — 
I  seek  my  hound  or  falcon  strayed, 
I  seek,  good  faith,  a  Highland  maid  — 
Free  hadst  thou  been  to  come  and  go; 
But  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 
Nor  yet,  for  this,  even  as  a  spy, 
Hadst  thou,  unheard,  been  doomed  to  die, 
Save  to  fulfil  an  augury." 
"  Well,  let  it  pass ;  nor  will  I  now 
Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow, 
To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow. 
Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 
To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride ; 
Twice  have  I  sought  Clan-Alpine's  glen 
In  peace ;  but  when  I  come  agen, 
I  come  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow. 
As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 
For  love-lorn  swain,  in  lady's  bower. 
Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hour, 
As  I,  until  before  me  stand 
This  rebel  Chieftain  and  his  band." 


(^    "Have  then  thy  wish!"  —  he  whistled  shrill, 
'    And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill; 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew, 
From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 
Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 
Bonnets,  and  spears,  and  bended  bows ; 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  423 

On  right,  on  left,  above,  below, 

Sprang  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe  ; 

From  shingles  gray  their  lances  start, 

The  bracken  bush  sends  forth  the  dart, 

The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 

Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand, 

And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 

To  plaided  warrior  armed  for  strife. 

That  whistle  garrisoned  the  glen 

At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men, 

As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 

A  subterranean  host  had  given. 

Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 

All  silent  there  they  stood  and  still. 

Like  the  loose  crags  .whose  threatening  mass 

Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass, 

As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 

Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge, 

With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung. 

Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 

The  mountaine?^r  cast  glance  of  pride 

Along  Benledi's  living  side. 

Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 

Full  on  Fitz-James  —  "  How  say'st  thou  now  ? 

These  are  Clan- Alpine's  warriors  true; 

And,  Saxon  —  I  am  Roderick  Dhu  !  " 


Fitz-James  was  brave:  —  though  to  his  heart 
The  life-blood  thrilled  with  sudden  start; 
He  manned  himself  with  dauntless  air. 
Returned  the  Chief  his  haughty  stare, 
His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore, 
And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before ;  — 


^iSJ4  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

"  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 

From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I ! " 

Sir  Roderick  marked  —  and  in  his  eyes 

Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise, 

And  the  stem  joy  which  warriors  feel 

In  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel. 

Short  space  he  stood  —  then  waved  his  hand; 

Down  sank  the  disappearing  band ; 

Each  warrior  vanished  where  he  stood, 

In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood; 

Sank  brand  and  spear,  and  bended  bow, 

In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low ; 

It  seemed  as  if  their  mother  Earth 

Had  swallowed  up  her  warlike  birth. 

The  wind's  last  breath  had  tossed  in  air 

Pennon,  and  plaid,  and  plumage  fair  — 

The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hill-side, 

Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide; 

The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back, 

From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and  jack— 

The  next,  all  unreflected,  shone 

On  bracken  green  and  cold  gray  stone. 


'\    Fitz-Jam^s  looked  round  —  yet  scarce  believed 
The  witness  that  his  sight  received ; 
Such  apparitions  well  might  seem 
Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 
Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed. 
And  to  his  look  the  Chief  replied, 
"Fear  naught  —  nay,  that  I  need  not  say  — 
But  —  doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 
Thou  art  my  guest;  —  1  pledged  my  word 
As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford : 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  425 

Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 

For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand, 

Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 

Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  Gael. 

So  move  we  on;  —  I  only  meant 

To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant, 

Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue, 

Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dh'u." 

They  moved  :  —  I  said  Fitz-James  was  brave 

As  ever  knight  that  belted  glaive  ; 

Yet  dare  not  say,  that  now  his  blood 

Kept  on  its  wont  and  tempered  flood, 

As,  following  Roderick's  stride,  he  drew 

That  seeming  lonesome  pathway  through, 

Which  yet,  by  fearful  proof,  was  rife 

With  lances,  that  to  take  his  life 

Waited  but  signal  from  a  guide. 

So  late  dishonored  and  defied. 

Ever,  by  stealth,  his  eye  sought  round 

The  vanished  guardians  of  the  ground, 

And  still  from  copse  and  heather  deep. 

Fancy  saw  spear  and  broadsword  peep, 

And  in  the  plover's  shrilly  strain. 

The  signal  whistle  heard  again. 

Nor  breathed  he  free,  till  far  behind 

The  pass  was  left;  for  then  they  wind 

Along  a  wide  and  level  green. 

Where  neither  tree  nor  tuft  was  seen, 

Nor  rush,  nor  bush  of  broom  was  near. 

To  hide  a  bonnet  or  a«  spear. 


i  /  The  Chief  in  silence  strode  before, 

And  reached  that  torrent's  sounding  shore, 

36* 


426  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Which,  daughter  of  three  mighty  lakes, 

From  Vennachar  in  silver  breaks, 

Sweeps  through  the  plain,  and  ceaseless  mines 

On  Bochastle  the  mouldering  lines, 

Where  Rome,  the  Empress  of  the  world, 

Of  yore  her  eagle  wings  unfurled. 

And  here  his  course  the  Chieftain  staid. 

Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid. 

And  to  the  Lowland  warrior  said  : 

"  Bold  Saxon !  to  his  promise  just, 

Vich-Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust 

This  murderous  chief,  this  ruthless  man. 

This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 

Hath  led  thee  safe,  through  watch  and  ward, 

Far  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 

Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 

A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feeL 

See,  here,  all  vantageless  I  stand. 

Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand ; 

For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford. 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword." 


\ 


The  Saxon  paused  :  —  I  ne'er  delayed, 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade; 
Nay  more,  brave  Chief,  I  vowed  thy  death; 
Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith, 
And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 
A  better  meed  have  well  reserved*. — 
Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone  ? 
Are  there  no  means T'  — "No,  Stranger,  none! 
And  hear  —  to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal  — 
The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel; 
For  thus  spoke  Fate  by  prophet  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead: 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  427 

*Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life, 

His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.'" 

"Then,  by  my  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 

"The  riddle  is  already  read. 

Seek  yonder  brake  beneath  the  cliff — 

There  lies  Red  Murdoch,  stark  and  stiff 

Thus  Fate  has  solved  her  prophecy, 

Then  yield  to  Fate,  and  not  to  me. 

To  James,  at  Stirling,  let  us  go,  '' 

When,  if  thou  wilt  be  still  his  foe, 

Or  if  the  King  shall  not  agree 

To  grant  thee  grace  and  favor  free, 

I  plight  mine  honor,  oath,  and  word, 

That,  to  thy  native  strength  restored, 

With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand, 

That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land." 

Dark  lightning  flashed  from  Roderick's  eye-- 

"  Soars  thy  presumption,  then,  so  high. 

Because  a  wretched  kern  ye  slew. 

Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu  ? 

He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  Fate! 

Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate  — 

My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge. 

Not  yet  prepared  ?     By.  heaven,  I  change 

My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valor  light 

As  tliat  of  some  vain  carpet-knight. 

Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care. 

And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 

A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair." 

"  I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word  ! 

It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword ; 

For  I  have  sworn  this  braid  to  stain 

In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 


428  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

^    Now,  truce,  farewell!  and  ruth,  be  gone!  — 
Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone, 
Proud  Chief!  can  courtesy  be  shown; 
Though  not  from  copse,  or  heath,  or  cairn, 
Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 
Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 
Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast 
But  fear  not  —  doubt  not  —  which  thou  wilt— 
We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt." 
Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew. 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw. 
Each  looked  to  sun,  and  stream,  and  plain, 
As  what  they  ne'er  might  see  again; 
Then  foot,  and  point,  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

1-7      111  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw, 
Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull-hide 
Had  death  so  often  dashed  aside ; 
For,  trained  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
Fitz-James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 
He  practised  every  pass  and  ward. 
To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard ; 
While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far, 
The  Gael  maintained  unequal  war. 
Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood, 
And  thrice  the  Saxon  sword  drank  blood  — 
No  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tide. 
The  gushing  flood  the  tartans  dyed. 
Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain, 
And  showered  his  blows  like  wintry  rain, 
And,  as  firm  rock,  a  castle-roof. 
Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  429 

The  foe,  invulnerable  still, 
Foiled  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill; 
Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 
And,  backwards  borne  upon  the  lea. 
Brought  the  proud  Chieftain  to  his  knee. 

"Now,  yield  thee,  or,  by  Him  who  made 
The  world,  thy  heart's  blood  dyes  my  blade  ! " 
"Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy! 
Let  recreant  yield  who  fears  to  die." 
Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil. 
Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil, 
Like  mountain-cat  who  guards  her  young, 
Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprung, 
Received,  but  recked  not  of  a  wound. 
And  locked  his  arms  his  foeman  round. 
Now,  gallant  Saxon,  hold  thine  own! 
No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown! 
That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel 
Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel! 
They  tug,  they  strain!  —  down,  down,  they  go, 
The  Gael  above,  Fitz-James  below! 
The  Chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compressed, 
His  knee  was  planted  in  his  breast ; 
His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 
Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew. 
From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight, 
Then  gleamed  aloft  his  dagger  bright! 
But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 
The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide, 
And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came, 
To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game ; 


4fK^  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

For,  while  the  dagger  gleamed  on  high, 
Reeled  soul  and  sense,  reeled  brain  and  eye, 
Down  came  the  blow!  but  in  the  heath 
The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 
The  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 
The  fainting  Chief's  relaxing  grasp; 
Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close. 
But  breathless  all,  Fitz- James  arose. 


He  faltered  thanks  to  heaven  for  life. 

Redeemed,  unhoped,  from  desperate  strife ; 

Next  on  his  foe  his  look  he  cast, 

Whose  every  gasp  appeared  his  last ; 

In  Roderick's  gore  he  dipped  the  braid, 

"  Poor  Blanche !  thy  wrongs  are  dearly  paid ; 

Yet  with  thy  foe  must  die,  or  live. 

The  praise  that  Faith  and  Valor  give." 

With  that  he  blew  a  bugle-note. 

Undid  the  collar  from  his  throat, 

Unbonnetted,  and  by  the  wave 

Sate  down  his  brow  and  hands  to  lave. 

Then  faint  afar  are  heard  the  feet 

Of  rushing  steeds  in  gallop  fleet ; 

The  sounds  increase,  and  now  are  seen 

Four  mounted  squires  in  Lincoln  green; 

Two  who  bear  lance,  and  two  who  lead, 

By  loosened  rein,  a  saddled  steed; 

Each  onward  held  his  headlong  course, 

And  by  Fitz-James  reined  up  his  horse. 

With  wonder  viewed  the  bloody  spot  — 

"  Exclaim  not  gallants !  question  not. 

You,  Herbert  and  Luffness,  alight. 

And  bind  the  wounds  of  yonder  knight, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  431 

Let  the  gray  palfrey  bear  his  weight, 
We  destined  for  a  fairer  freight, 
And  bring  him  on  to  Stirling  straight; 
I  will  before  at  better  speed, 
To  seek  fresh  horse  and  fitting  weed. 
The  sun  rides  high;  I  must  be  boune 
To  see  the  archer-game  at  noon; 
But  lightly  Bayard  clears  the  lea. 
De  Vaux  and  Herries,  follow  me! 

/  "/     "  Stand,  Bayard,  stand  ! "  the  steed  obeyed, 
With  arching  neck  and  bended  head, 
And  glancing  eye,  and  quivering  ear, 
As  if  he  loved  his  lord  to  hear. 
No  foot  Fitz- James  in  stirrup  staid, 
No  grasp  upon  the  saddle  laid, 
But  wreathed  his  left  hand  in  the  mane, 
And  lightly  bounded  from  the  plain. 
Turned  on  the  horse  his  armed  heel, 
And  stirred  his  courage  with  the  steel. 
Bounded  the  fiery  steed  in  air, 
The  rider  sate  erect  and  fair. 
Then,  like  a  bolt,  from  Pteel  cross-bow 
Forth  launched,  along  the  plain  they  go. 
They  dashed  that  rapid  torrent  through. 
And  up  Carhonie's  hill  they  flew; 
Still  at  the  gallop  pricked  the  knight, 
His  merry-men  followed  as  they  might 
Along  thy  banks,  swift  Teith!  they  ride, 
And  in  the  race  they  mock  thy  tide ; 
Torry  and  Lendrick  now  are  past. 
And  Deanstown  lies  behind  them  cast; 
They  rise,  the  bannered  towers  of  Doune, 
They  sink  in  distant  woodland  soon; 


432  THE    LADY    OF    THR    LAKE. 

Blair-Drummond  se^s  the  hoofs  strike  fire, 
They  sweep  like  breeze  through  Ochtertyre; 
They  mark  just  glance  and  disappear 
The  lofty  brow  of  ancient  Keir; 
They  bathe  their  coursers'  sweltering  sides, 
Dai'k  Forth!  amid  thy  sluggish  tides, 
And  on  the  opposing  shore  take  ground, 
With  plash,  with  scramble,  and  with  bound. 
Right  hand  they  leave  thy  cliffs,  Craig-fortli, 
And  soon  the  bulwark  of  the  North, 
Gray  Stirling,  with  her  towers  and  town, 
Upon  their  fleet  career  looked  down. 

^  "^     As  up  the  flinty  path  they  strained, 
Sudden  his  steed  the  leader  reined ; 
A  signal  to  his  squire  he  flung. 
Who  instant  to  his  stirrup  sprung:  — 
"Seest  thou,  De  Vaux,  yon  woodsman  gray, 
Who  townward  holds  the  rocky  way, 
Of  stature  tall  and  poor  array  ? 
Mark'st  thou  the  firm,  yet  active  stride, 
With  which  he  scales  the  mountain  side? 
Know'st  thou  from  whence  he  comes,  or  whom  ?  " 
"No,  by  my  word;  —  a  burly  groom 
He  seems,  who  in  the  field  or  chase 
A  Baron's  train  would  nobly  grace." 
"Out,  out,  De  Vaux!  can  fear  supply 
And  jealousy,  no  sharper  eye  ? 
Afar,  ere  to  the  hill  he  drew. 
That  stately  form  and  step  I  knew ; 
Like  form  in  Scotland  is  not  seen, 
Treads  not  such  step  on  Scottish  green. 
'Tis  James  of  Douglas,  by  Saint  Serle! 
The  uncle  of  the  banished  Earl. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  433 

Away,  away,  to  court,  to  show 
The  near  approach  of  dreaded  foe : 
The  King  must  stand  upon  his  guard  ; 
Douglas  and  he  must  meet  prepared." 
Then   right  hand  wheeled  their  steeds,  and 

straight 
They  won  the  castle's  postern  gate. 

The  Douglas,  who  had  bent  his  way 

From  Cambus-Kenneth's  abbey  gray, 

Now,  as  he  climbed  the  rocky  shelf, 

Held  sad  communion  with  himself:  — 

"  Yes !  all  is  true  my  fears  could  frame ; 

A  prisoner  lies  the  noble  Graeme, 

And  fiery  Roderick  soon  will  feel 

The  vengeance  of  the  royal  steel. 

I,  only  I,  can  ward  their  fate  — 

God  grant  the  ransom  come  not  late ! 

The  Abbess  hath  her  promise  given. 

My  child  shall  be  the  bride  of  heaven ;  — 

Be  pardoned  one  repining  tear ! 

For  He  who  gave  her,  knows  how  dear. 

How  excellent — but  that  is  by. 

And  now  my  business  is  to  die. 

Ye  towers !  within  whose  circuit  dread 

A  Douglas  by  his  sovereign  bled, 

And  thou,  oh  sad  and  fatal  mound ! 

That  oft  has  heard  the  death-axe  sound, 

As  on  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Fell  the  stern  headsman's  bloody  hand  — 

The  dungeon,  block,  and  nameless  tomb 

Prepare  —  for  Douglas  seeks  his  doom! 

But  hark!  what  blithe  and  jolly  peal 

Makes  the  Franciscan  steeple  reel  ? 

37 


4 


^s 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And  see !  upon  the  crowded  street, 

In  motley  groups  what  maskers  meet! 

Banner,  and  pag-eant,  pipe  and  drum. 

And  merry  morrice-dancers  come. 

I  guess,  by  all  this  quaint  array, 

The  burghers  hold  their  sports  to-day, 

James  will  be  there  —  he  loves  such  show, 

Where  the  good  yeoman  bends  his  bow, 

And  the  tough  wrestler  foils  his  foe, 

As  well  as  where,  in  proud  career, 

The  high-born  tilter  shivers  spear. 

I'll  follow  to  the  Castle-park, 

And  play  my  prize — King  James  shall  mark, 

If  age  has  tamed  these  sinews  stark. 

Whose  force  so  oft,  in  happier  days, 

His  boyish  wonder  loved  to  praise." 


The  Castle  gates  were  open  flung. 

The  quivering  draw-bridge  rocked  and  rung, 

And  echoed  loud  the  flinty  street 

Beneath  the  coursers'  clattering  feet, 

As  slowly  doAvn  the  deep  descent 

Fair  Scotland's  King  and  nobles  went, 

While  all  along  the  crowded  way 

Was  jubilee  and  loud  huzza. 

And  ever  James  was  bending  low, 

To  his  white  jennet's  saddle-bow. 

Doffing  his  cap  to  city  dame, 

Who  smiled  and  blushed  for  pride  and  shame, 

And  well  the  simperer  might  be  vain  — 

He  chose  the  fairest  of  the  train. 

Gravely  he  greets  each  city  sire, 

Commends  each  pageant's  quaint  attire, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  435 


And  smiles  and  nods  upon  the  crowd, 
Who  rend  the  heavens  with  their  acclaims, 
"  Long  live  the  Commons'  King,  King  James !  ** 
Behind  the  King  thronged  peer  and  knight, 
And  noble  dame  and  damsel  bright, 
Whose  fiery  steeds  ill  brooked  the  stay 
Of  the  steep  street  and  crowded  way. 
But  in  the  train  you  might  discern 
Dark  lowering  brow  and  visage  stem: 
Then  nobles  mourned  their  pride  restrained, 
And  the  mean  burghers'  joys  disdained ; 
And  chiefs,  who,  hostage  for  their  clan. 
Were  each  from  home  a  banished  man. 
There  thought  upon  their  own  gray  tower, 
Their  waving  woods,  their  feudal  power. 
And  deemed  themselves  a  shameful  part 
Of  pageant,  which  they  cursed  in  heart. 
Now  in  the  Castle-park,  drew  out 
Their  checkered  bands  the  joyous  route. 
There  morricers,  with  bell  at  heel. 
And  blade  in  hand,  their  mazes  wheel; 
But  chief,  beside  the  butts,  there  stand 
Bold  Robin  Hood  and  all  his  band  — 
Friar  Tuck  with  quarter-staff  and  cowl. 
Old  Scathelocke  with  his  surly  scowl. 
Maid  Marian,  fair  as  ivory  bone, 
Scarlet,  and  Mutch,  and  Little  John; 
Their  bugles  challenge  all  that  will, 
In  archery  to  prove  their  skill. 
The  Douglas  bent  a  bow  of  might  — 
His  first  shaft  centered  in  the  white, 
And  when  in  turn  he  shot  again. 
His  second  split  the  first  in  twain. 


ji^  THE    LADY    OF    TllE    LAKE. 

From  the  King's  hand  must  Douglas  take 
A  silver  dart,  the  archers,  stake, 
Fondly  he  watched,  with  watery  eye, 
Some  answering  glance  of  sympathy  — 
No  kind  emotion  made  reply ! 
Indifferent  as  to  archer  wight, 
The  monarch  gave  the  arrow  bright. 


n/f 


Now,  clear  the  ring!  for,  hand  to  hand, 
The  manly  wrestlers  take  their  stand. 
Two  o'er  the  rest  superior  rose. 
And  proud  demanded  mightier  foes. 
Nor  called  in  vain;  for  Douglas  came. 
—  For  life,  is  Hugh  of  Lambert  lame ; 
Scarce  better  John  of  Alloa's  fare. 
Whom  senseless  home  his  comrades  bear 
Prize  of  the  wrestling  match,  the  King 
To  Douglas  gave  a  golden  ring. 
While  coldly  glanced  his  eye  of  blue, 
As  frozen  drop  of  winter  dew. 
Douglas  would  speak,  but  in  his  breast 
His  struggling  soul  his  words  suppressed: 
Indignant,  then,  he  turned  him  where 
Their  arms  the  brawny  yeomen  bare. 
To  hurl  the  massive  bar  in  air. 
When  each  his  utmost  strength  had  shown, 
The  Douglas  rent  an  earth-fast  stone 
From  its  deep  bed,  then  heaved  it  high. 
And  sent  the  fragment  through  the  sky, 
A  rood  beyond  the  farthest  mark; 
And  still,  in  Stirling's  royal  park, 
The  gray-haired  sires  who  know  the  past, 
To  strangers  point  the  Douglas-cast, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  437 

And  moralize  on  the  decay 

Of  Scottish  strength  in  modern  day. 


fK 


he  vale  witli  loud  applauses  rang, 
The  Ladies'  Rock  sent  back  the  clang; 
The  King,  with  look  unmoved,  bestowed 
A  purse  well  filled  with  pieces  broad. 
Indignant  smiled  the  Douglas  proud, 
And  threw  the  gold  among  the  crowd, 
Who  now,  with  anxious  wonder,  scan, 
And  sharper  glance,  the  dark  gray  man; 
Till  whispers  rose  among  the  throng. 
That  heart  so  free,  and  hand  so  strong, 
Must  to  the  Douglas*  blood  belong : 
The  old  men  marked,  and  shook  the  head, 
To  see  his  hair  with  silver  spread. 


Of  feats  upon  the  English  done. 
Ere  Douglas  of  the  stalwart  hand 
Was  exiled  from  his  native  land. 
The  women  praised  his  stately  form. 
Though  wrecked  by  many  a  winter's  storm; 
The  youth,  with  awe  and  wonder,  saw 
His  strength  surpassing  Nature's  law. 
Thus  judged,  as  is  their  wont,  the  crowd. 
Till  murmurs  rose  to  clamors  loud. 
But  not  a  glance  from  that  proud  ring 
Of  peers  who  circled  round  the  King, 
With  Douglas  held  communion  kind, 
Or  called  the  banished  man  to  mind; 
^    No,  not  from  those  who,  at  the  chase. 
Once  held  his  side  the  honored  place. 
Begirt  his  board,  and,  in  the  field. 
Found  safety  underneath  his  shield; 


438  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

For  he,  whom  royal  eyes  disown, 
When  was  his  form  to  courtiers  known! 


'^     The  Monarch  saw  the  gambols  flag, 
And  bade  let  loose  a  gallant  stag, » 
Whose  pride,  the  holiday  to  crown, 
Two  favorite  grayhounds  should  pull  down, 
That  vension  free,  and  Bourdeaux  wine, 
Might  serve  the  archery  to  dine. 
But  Lufra  —  Avhom  from  Douglas'  side 
Nor  bribe  nor  threat  could  e'er  divide  — 
The  fleetest  hound  in  all  the  North, 
Brave  Lufra  saw,  and  darted  forth. 
She  left  the  royal  hounds  mid-way. 
And  dashing  on  the  antlered  prey, 
Sank  her  sharp  muzzle  in  his  flank. 
And  deep  the  flowing  life-blood  drank. 
The  King's  stout  huntsman  saw  the  sport 
By  strange  intruder  broken  short. 
Came  up,  and,  with  his  leash  unbound. 
In  anger  struck  the  noble  hound. 
The  Douglas  had  endured,  that  morn. 
The  King's  cold  look,  the  nobles'  scorn, 
And  last,  and  worst  to  spirit  proud. 
Had  borne  the  pity  of  the  crowd; 
But  Lufra  had  been  fondly  bred. 
To  share  his  board,  to  watch  his  bed ; 
And  oft  would  Ellen,  Lufra's  neck, 
In  maiden  glee,  with  garlands  deck; 
They  were  such  playmates,  that  with  name 
Of  Lufra,  Ellen's  image  came. 
His  stifled  wrath  is  brimming  high. 
In  darkened  brow  and  flashing  eye ; 


f"? 


>> 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  4(R 

As  waves  before  the  bark  divide, 
The  crowd  gave  way  before  his* stride; 
Needs  but  a  buffet  and  no  more, 
The  groom  lies  senselesa  in  his  gore. 
Such  blow  no  other  hand  could  deal, 
Though  gauntletted  in  glove  of  steel. 

Then  clamored  loud  the  royal  train, 

And  brandished  swords  and  staves  amain ; 

But  stern  the  Baron's  warning  —  "Back! 

Back  on  your  lives,  ye  menial  pack ! 

Beware  the  Douglas.     Yes !  behold, 

King  James,  the  Douglas,  doomed  of  old, 

And  vainly  sought  for  near  and  far, 

A  victim  to  atone  the  war. 

A  willing  victim,  now  attends. 

Nor  craves  thy  grace  but  for  his  friends." 

"  Thus  is  my  clemency  repaid  ? 

Presumptuous  lord  !  "  the  Monarch  said  ; 

"Of  thy  mis-proud  ambitious  clan. 

Thou,  James  of  Bothwell,  wert  the  man. 

The  only  man,  in  whom  a  foe 

My  woman-mercy  would  not  know : 

But  shall  a  Monarch's  presence  brook 

Injurious  blow,  ana  haughty  look.? 

What  ho !  the  Captain  of  our  Guard ! 

Give  the  offender  fitting  ward. 

Break  off  the  sports  ! "  for  tumult  rose. 

And  yeoman  'gan  to  bend  their  bows  — 

"  Break  off  the  sports ! "  he  said,  and  frowned, 

"  And  bid  our  horseman  clear  the  ground." 

Then  uproar  wild  and  misarray 
Marred  the  fair  form  of  festal  day. 


440  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

The  horsemen  pricked  among  the  crowd, 
Repelled  by  threats  and  insult  loud ; 
To  earth  are  borne  the  old  and  weak, 
The  timorous  fly,  the  women  shriek, 
With  flint,  with  shaft,  with  stafT,  with  bar, 
The  hardier  urge  tumultuous  war. 
At  once  round  Douglas  darkly  sweep 
The  royal  spears  in  circle  deep. 
And  slowly  scale  the  pathway  steep. 
While  on  their  rear  in  thunder  pour 
The  rabble  with  disordered  roar. 
With  grief  the  noble  Douglas  saw 
The  commons  rise  against  the  law. 
And  to  the  leading  soldier  said, 
"Sir  John  of  Hyndford !  'twas  my  blade 
That  knighthood  on  thy  shoulder  laid; 
For  that  good  deed,  permit  me,  then, 
A  word  with  these  misguided  men. 

"Hear,  gentle  friends!  ere  yet,  for  me. 
Ye  break  the  bands  of  fealty. 
My  life,  my  honor,  and  my  cause, 
I  tender  free  to  Scotland's  laws. 
Are  these  so  weak  as  must  require 
The  aid  of  your  misguided  ire  ? 
Or,  if  I  suffer  causeless  wrong. 
Is  then  my  selfish  rage  so  strong, 
My  sense  of  public  weal  so  low, 
That,  for  mean  vengeance  on  a  foe, 
Those  chords  of  love  I  should  unbind. 
Which  knit  my  country  and  my  kind  ? 
Oh  no!    Believe,  in  yonder  tower 
It  will  not  soothe  my  captive  hour. 


THE    LADY    OF    TflJS    LAKE.  441 

To  know  those  spears  our  foes  should  dread, 

For  me  in  kindred  gore  are  red; 

To  know,  in  fruitless  brawl  begun, 

For  me,  that  mother  wails  her  son: 

For  me,  that  widow's  mate  expires,  * 

For  me,  that  orphans  weep  their  sires, 

That  patriots  mourn  insulted  laws. 

And  curse  the  Douglas  for  the  cause.- 

Oh  let  your  patience  ward  such  ill, 

And  keep  your  right  to  love  me  still!" 

n  6 

0       The  crowd's  wild  fury  sunk  again 

In  tears,  as  tempests  melt  in  rain. 

With  lifted  hands  and  eyes,  they  prayed 

For  blessings  on  his  generous  head, 

Who  for  his  country  felt  alone. 

Who  prized  her  blood  beyond  his  own. 

Old  men,  upon  the  verge  of  life. 

Blessed  him  who  staid  the  civil  strife, 

And  mothers  held  their  babes  on  high, 

The  self-devoted  chief  to  spy, 

Triumphant  over  wrong  and  ire. 

To  whom  the  prattlers  owed  a  sire: 

Even  the  rough  soldier's  heart  was  moved; 

As  if  behind  some  bier  beloved. 

With  trailing  arms  and  drooping  dead, 

The  Douglas  up  the  hill  he  led. 

And  at  the  castle's  battled  verge. 

With  sighs,  resigned  his  honored  charge. 

3  /      The  offended  Monarch  rode  apart. 

With  bitter  thought  and  swelling  heart. 
And  would  not  now  vouchsafe  again 
Through  Stirling  streets  to  lead  his  train. 


4191'  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

"  Oh  Lennox,  who  would  wish  to  rule 
This  changling  crowd,  this  common  fool; 
Hear'st  thou,"  he  said,  "the  loud  acclaim 
With  which  they  shout  the  Douglas  nameE 
With  like  acclaim,  the  vulgar  throat 
Strained  for  King  James  their  morning  note ; 
With  like  acclaim  they  hailed  the  day 
When  first  I  broke  the  Douglas'  sway; 
And  like  acclaim  would  Douglas  greet, 
If  he  could  hurl  me  from  my  seat. 
Who  o'er  the  herd  would  wish  to  reign, 
Fantastic,  fickle,  fierce,  and  vain? 
Vain  as  the  leaf  upon  the  stream, 
And  fickle  as  a  changeful  dream ; 
Fantastic  as  a  woman's  mood. 
And  fierce  as  Frenzy's  fevered  blood. 
Thou  many-headed  monster-thing. 
Oh  who  could  wish  to  be  thy  king! 


"  But  soft !  what  messenger  of  speed 

Spurs  hitherward  his  panting  steed  ? 

I  guess  his  cognizance  afar  — 

What  from  our  cousin,  John  of  Mar?" 

"He  prays,  my  liege,  your  sports  keep  bound 

Within  the  safe  and  guarded  ground: 

For  some  foul  purpose  yet  unknown  — 

Most  sure  for  evil  to  the  throne  — 

The  outlawed  Chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 

Has  summoned  his  rebellious  crew ; 

'Tis  said,  in  James  of  Bothwell's  aid 

These  loose  banditti  stand  arrayed. 

The  Earl  of  Mar,  this  morn,  from  Doune, 

To  break  their  muster  marched,  and  soon 


^■^ 


3 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  443 

Your  grace  will  hear  of  battle  fougnt ; 
But  earnestly  the  Earl  besought, 
Till  for  such  danger  he  provide, 
With  scanty  train  you  will  not  ride." 

"Thou  warn'st  me  I  have  done  amiss, 
I  should  have  earlier  looked  to  this: 
I  lost  it  in  this  bustling  day. 
Retrace  with  speed  thy  former  way ; 
Spare  not  for  spoiling  of  thy  steed, 
The  best  of  mine  shall  be  thy  meed, 
Say  to  our  faithful  Lord  of  Mar, 
We  do  forbid  the  intended  war! 
Roderick,  this  morn,  in  single  fight, 
Was  made  our  prisoner  by  a  knight. 
And  Douglas  hath  himself  and  cause 
Submitted  to  our  kingdom's  laws. 
The  tidings  of  their  leaders  lost 
Will  soon  dissolve  the  mountain  host. 
Nor  would  we  that  the  vulgar  feel. 
For  their  Chief's  crimes,  avenging  steel. 
Bear  Mar  our  message,  Braco,  fly." 
He  turned  his  steed  — "My  liege,  I  hie. 
Yet,  ere  I  cross  this  lily  lawn, 
I  fear  the  broadswords  will  be  drawn." 
The  turf  the  flying  courser  spurned. 
And  to  his. towers  the  King  returned. 

■HI  with  King  James's  mood  that  day 
Suited  gay  feast  and  minstrel  lay ; 
Soon  was  dismissed  the  courtly  throng. 
And  soon  cut  short  the  festal  song. 
Nor  less  upon  the  saddened  town 
The  evening  sank  in  sorrow  down ; 


414  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

The  burghers  spoke  of  civil  jar, 

Of  rumored  feuds  and  mountain  war, 

Of  Moray,  Mar,  and  Roderick  Dhu, 

All  up  in  arms:  the  Douglas  too. 

They  mourned  him  pent  within  the  hold 

Where  stout  Earl  William  was  of  old; 

And  there  his  word  the  speaker  staid. 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 

Or  pointed  to  his  dagger  blade. 

But  jaded  horsemen  from  the  west, 

At  evening  to  the  castle  pressed ; 

And  busy  talkers  said  they  bore 

Tidings  of  fight  on  Katrine's  shore; 

At  noon  the  deadly  fray  begun. 

And  lasted  till  the  set  of  sun. 

Thus  giddy  rumor  shook  the  town. 

Till  closed  the  Night  her  pennons  brown. 


THE   LADY   OF    THE   LAKE.  445 


CANTO  SIXTH. 

THE  GXJAKD-KOOM. 

The  sun,  awakening,  through  the  smoky  air 

Of  the  dark  city  casts  a  sullen  glance. 
Rousing  each  caitiff  to  his  task  of  care. 

Of  sinful  man  the  sad  inheritance; 

Summoning  revellers  from  the  lagging  dance, 
Scaring  the  prowling  robber  to  his  den; 

Gilding  on  battled  tower  the  warder's  lance. 
And  Earning  student  pale  to  leave  his  pen, 
And  yield  his  drowsy  eyes  to  the  kind  nurse  of  men. 

What  various  scenes,  and  oh!  what  scenes  of  wo, 

Are  witnessed  by  that  red  and  struggling  beam! 
.   The  fevered  patient,  from  his  pallet  low. 

Through  crowded  hospital  beholds  it  stream; 

The  ruined  maiden  trembles  at  its  gleam, 
The  debtor  wakes  to  thoughts  of  gyve  and  jail, 

The  love-lorn  wretch  starts  from  tormenting  dream ; 
The  wakeful  mother,  by  the  glimmering  pale. 
Trims  her  sick  infant's  couch,  and  soothes  his  feeble 
wail. 

At  dawn  the  towers  of  Stirling  rang 
^  With  soldier-step  and  weapon-clang, 

^  While  drums,  with  rolling  note,  foretell 

Relief  to  weary  sentinel. 

Through  narrow  loop  and  casement  barred, 

The  sunbeams  sought  the  Court  of  Guard, 

38 


4Jte  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

And,  struggling  with  the  smoky  air, 
Deadened  the  torches'  yellow  glare. 
In  comfortless  alliance  shone 
The  lights  through  arch  of  blackened  stone, 
And  showed  wild  shapes  in  garb  of  war. 
Faces  deformed  with  beard  and  scar, 
All  haggard  from  the  midnight  watch. 
And  fevered  with  the  stern  debauch ; 
For  the  oak  table's  massive  board, 
Flooded  with  wine,  with  fragments  stored, 
And  beakers  drained,  and  cups  o'erthrown. 
Showed  in  what  sport  the  night  had  flown. 
Some,  weary,  snored  on  floor  and  bench ; 
Some  labored  still  their  thirst  to  quench; 
Some,  chilled  with  watching,  spread  their  hands 
O'er  the  huge  chimney's  dying  brands. 
While  round  them,  or  beside  them  flung. 
At  every  step  their  harness  rung. 


Like  tenants  of  a  feudal  lord. 

Nor  owned  the  patriarchal  claim 

Of  chieftain  in  their  leaders  name ; 

Adventurers  they,  from  far  who  roved. 

To  live  by  battle  which  they  loved. 

There  the  Italian's  clouded  face, 

The  swarthy  Spaniard's  there  you  trace ; 

The  mountain-loving  Switzer  there 

More  freely  breathed  in  mountain  air. 

The  Fleming  there  despised  the  soil 

That  paid  so  ill  the  laborer's  toil; 

Their  rolls  showed  French  and  German  name , 

And  merry  England's  exiles  came, 


THE    LADy    OF    THE   ^AKE.  447 

To  share,  with  ill-concealed  disdain, 
Of  Scotland's  pay  the  scanty  gain. 
All  brave  in  arms,  well  trained  to  wield 
The  heavy  halbert,  brand,  and  shield; 
In  camps,  licentious,  wild,  and  bold ; 
In  pillage,  fierce  and  uncontrolled ; 
And  now,  by  holytide  and  feast, 
From  rules  of  discipline  released. 

They  held  debate  of  bloody  fray. 

Fought  'twixt  Loch-Katrine  and  Ac  bray. 

Fierce  was  their  speech,  and,  mid  their  words, 

Their  hands  oft  grappled  to  their  swords ; 

Nor  sank  their  tone  to  spare  the  ear 

Of  wounded  comrades  groaning  near, 

Whose  mangled  limbs,  and  bodies  gored, 

Bore  token  of  the  mountain  sword. 

Though,  neighboring  to  the  Court  of  Guard, 

Their  prayers  and  feverish  wails  were  heard;  — 

Sad  burdened  to  the  ruffian  joke, 

And  savage  oath  by  fury  spoke!  — 

At  length  upstarted  John  of  Brent, 

A  yeoman  from  the  banks  of  Trent; 

A  stranger  to  respect  or  fear. 

In  peace  a  chaser  of  the  deer, 

In  host  a  hardy  mutineer. 

But  still  the  boldest  of  the  crew. 

When  deed  of  danger  was  to  do. 

He  grieved,  that  day,  their  games  cut  short, 

And  marred  the  dicers'  brawling  sport. 

And  shouted  loud,  "  Renew  the  bowl ! 

And,  while  a  merry  catch  I  troll. 

Let  each  the  buxom  chorus  bear. 

Like  brethren  of  the  brand  and  spear." 


448  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


SOLDIER'S  SONG. 

Our  vicar  still  preaches  that  Peter  and  Poule 

Laid  a  swinging  long  curse  on  the  bonny  brown  bowl, 

That  there's  wrath  and  despair  in  the  jolly  black  jack, 

And  seven  deadly  sins  in  a  flagon  of  sack ; 

Yet  whoop,  Barnaby!  off  with  thy  liquor, 

Drink  upsees  out,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar  ! 

Our  vicar  he  calls  it  damnation  to  sip 

The  ripe  ruddy  dew  of  a  woman's  dear  lip, — 

Says  that  Belzebub  lurks  in  her  kerchief  so  sly, 

And  Apollyon  shoots  darts  from  her  merry  black  eye ; 

Yet  whoop,  Jack !  kiss  Gillian  the  quicker, 

Till  she  bloom  like  a  rose,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar! 

Our  vicar  thus  preaches  —  and  why  should  he  not  ? 
For  the  dues  of  his  cure  are  the  placket  and  pot;  - 
And  'tis  right  of  his  office  poor  laymen  to  lurch. 
Who  infringe  the  domains  of  our  good  mother  Church ; 
Yet  whoop,  bully-boys !  off  with  your  liquor, 
Sweet  Marjorie's  the  word,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar! 


The  warder's  challenge  heard  without. 
Stayed  in  mid  roar  the  merry  shout. 
A  soldier  to  the  portal  went  — 
"Here  is  old  Bertram,  sirs,  of  Ghent; 
And,  beat  for  jubilee  the  drum  ! 
A  maid  and  minstrel  with  him  come. 
Bertram,  a  Fleming,  gray  and  scarred. 
Was  entering  now  the  Court  of  Guard, 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  449 

A  harper  with  him,  and,  in  plaid 

All  muffled  close,  a  mountain  maid, 

Who  backward  shrank,  to  'scape  the  view 

Of  the  loose  scene  and  boisterous  crew. 

"  What  news  ? "  they  roared  :  —  "I  only  know 

From  noon  till  eve  we  fought  with  foe, 

\As  wild  and  as  untameable 

I  As  the  rude  mountains,  where  they  dwell. 
On  both  sides  store  of  blood  is  lost. 
Not  much  success  can  either  boast." 
"  But  whence  thy  captives,  friend  ?  such  spoil 
As  theirs  must  need  reward  thy  toil. 
Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp ; 
Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp, 
Get  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land, 
The  leader  of  a  juggler  band." 

"  No,  comrade  ;  —  no  such  fortune  mine. 
After  the  fight,  these  sought  our  line, 
That  aged  harper  and  the  girl, 
And,  having  audience  of  the  Earl, 
Mar  bade  I  should  purvey  them  steed. 
And  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 
Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm. 
For  none  shall  do  them  shame  or  harm." 
"  Hear  ye  his  boast ! "  cried  John  of  Brent, 
Ever  to  strife  and  jangling  bent ; 
"«  "  Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge, 
f  And  yet  the  jealous  niggard  grudge 
\To  pay  the  forester  his  fee? 
I'll  have  my  share  howe'er  it  be, 
Despite  of  Moray,  Mar,  or  thee." 
Bertram  his  forward  step  withstood; 
And,  burning  in  his  vengeful  mood, 

88* 


450  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Old  Allan,  though  unfit  for  strife, 
Laid  hand  upon  his  dagger-knife; 
But  Ellen  boldly  stepped  between. 
And  dropped  at  once  the  tartan  screen; 
I  So,  from  his  morning  cloud,  appears 
The  sun  of  May,  through  summer  tears. 
The  savage  soldiery,  amazed, 
->As  on  descended  angel  gazed; 
Even  hardy  Brent,  abashed  and  tamed, 
Stood  half-admiring,  half-ashamed. 

Boldly  she  spoke  —  "Soldiers,  attend] 
My  father  was  the  soldier's  friend; 
Cheered  him  in  camps,  in  marches  led, 
And  with  him  in  the  battle  bled. 
Not  from  the  valiant,  or  the  strong. 
Should  exile's  daughter  suffer  wrong." 
Answered  De  Brent,  most  forward  still 
In  every  feat  of  good  or  ill, 
"I  shame  me  of  the  part  I  played; 
And  thou  an  outlaw's  child,  poor  maid! 
An  outlaw  I,  by  Forest  laws, 
And  merry  Needwood  knows  the  cause. 
Poor  Rose  —  if  Rose  be  living  now  "  — 
He  wiped  his  iron  eye  and  brow, 
"Must  bear  such  age,  I  think,  as  thou. 
Hear  ye,  my  mates;  I  go  to  call 
The  Captain  of  our  watch  to  hall: 
There  lies  my  halbert  on  the  floor; 
And  he  that  steps  my  halbert  o'er, 
To  do  the  maid  injurious  part. 
My  shaft  shall  quiver  in  his  heart! 
Beware  loose  speech,  or  jesting  rough, 
Ye  all  know  John  de  Brent     Enough." 


THE  LADY  Ot    THE  LAKE.  451 

Their  Captain  came,  a  gallant  young  — 

(Of  Tullibardine's  house  he  sprung — ) 

Nor  wore  he  yet  the  spur  of  knight; 

Gay  was  his  mien,  his  humor  light. 

And,  though  by  courtesy  controlled, 

Forward  his  speech,  his  bearing  bold. 

The  high-born  maiden  ill  could  brook 

The  scanning  of  his  curious  look 

And  dauntless  eye;  and  yet,  in  sooth. 

Young  Lewis  was  a  generous  youth ; 

But  Ellen's  lovely  face  and  mien. 

Ill-suited  to  the  garb  and  scene. 

Might  lightly  bear  construction  strange, 

And  give  loose  fancy  scope  to  range. 

"  Welcome  to  Stirling  towers,  fair  maid ! 

Come  ye  to  seek  a  champion's  aid, 

On  palfrey  white,  with  harper  hoar, 

Like  errant  damosel  of  yore  ? 

Does  thy  high  quest  a  knight  require, 

Or  may  the  venture  suit  a  squire?" 

Her  dark  eye  flashed  ;  she  paused  and  sighed  — 

"Oh  what  have  I  to  do  with  pride !  — 

Through  scenes  of  sorrow,  shame,  and  strife, 

A  suppliant  for  a  father's  life, 

I  crave  an  audience  of  the  King. 

Behold,  to  back  my  suit,  a  ring, 

The  royal  pledge  of  grateful  claims, 

Given  by  the  Monarch  to  Fitz-James." 


The  signet-ring  young  Lewis  took. 
With  deep  respect  and  altered  look; 
And  said  —  "  This  ring  our  duties  own ; 
And  pardon,  if,  to  worth  unknown, 


452  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

In  semblance  mean,  6bscurely  veiled, 

Lady,  in  aught  my  folly  failed. 

Soon  as  the  day  flings  wide  the  gates, 

The  King  shall  know  what  suitor  waits. 

Please  you,  meanwhile,  in  fitting  bower 

Repose  you  till  his  waking  hour ; 

Female  attendance  shall  obey 

Your  best,  for  service  or  array. 

Permit  I  marshal  you  the  way." 

But,  ere  she  followed,  with  the  grace 

And  open  bounty  of  her  race. 

She  bade  her  slender  purse  be  shared 

Among  the  soldiers  of  the  guard. 

The  rest  with  thanks  their  guerdon  took ; 

But  Brent,  with  shy  and  awkward  look, 

On  the  reluctant  maiden's  hold 

Forced  bluntly  back  the  proffered  gold ;  — 

"  Forgive  a  haughty  English  heart, 

And  oh,  forget  its  ruder  part! 

The  vacant  purse  shall  be  my  share, 

Which  in  my  barret-cap  Fll  bear. 

Perchance,  in  jeopardy  of  war. 

Where  gayer  crests  may  keep  afar." 

With  thanks  —  'twas  all  she  could  —  the  maid 

His  rugged  courtesy  repaid. 

When  Ellen  forth  with  Lewis  went, 
Allan  made  suit  to  John  of  Brent :  — 
"  My  lady  safe,  oh  let  your  grace 
Give  me  to  see  my  master's  face ! 
His  minstrel  I  —  to  share  his  doom 
Bound  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 
Tenth  in  descent,  since  first  my  sires 
Waked  for  his  noble  house  their  lyres, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  453 

Nor  one  of  all  the  race  was  known 
But  prized  its  weal  above  their  own. 
With  the  Chief's  birth  begins  our  care ; 
Our  harp  must  soothe  the  infant  heir, 
Teach  the  youth  tales  of  fight,  and  grace 
His  earliest  feat  of  field  or  chase ; 
In  peace,  in  war,  our  rank  we  keep. 
We  cheer  his  board,  we  soothe  his  sleej^ 
Nor  leave  him  till  we  pour  our  verse, 
A  doleful  tribute!  o'er  his  hearse. 
Then  let  me  share  his  captive  lot;        _ 
It  is  my  right  —  deny  it  not !  " 
"Little  we  reck,"  said  John  of  Brent, 
"  We  southern  men,  of  long  descent ; 
Nor  wot  we  how  a  name  —  a  word  — 
Makes  clansmen  vassals  to  a  lord : 
Yet  kind  my  noble  landlord's  part  — 
God  bless  the  house  of  Beau  desert! 
And,  but  I  loved  to  drive  the  deer. 
More  than  to  guide  the  laboring  steer, 
I  had  not  dwelt  an  outcast  here. 
Come,  good  old  Minstrel,  follow  me ; 
Thy  Lord  and  Chieftain  shalt  thou  see." 

Then,  from  a  rusted  iron  hook, 
A  bunch  of  ponderous  keys  he  took. 
Lighted  a  torch,  and  Allan  led 
Through  grated  arch  and  passage  dread. 
Portals  they  passed,  where,  deep  within, 
Spoke  prisoner's  moan  and  fetters'  din; 
Through  rugged  vaults,  where,  loosely  stored, 
Lay  wheel,  and  axe,  and  headsman's  sword, 
And  many  an  hideous  engine  grim. 
For  wrenching  joint,  and  crushing  limb, 


THE    LADr    OF    THE    LAKE. 

By  artists  formed,  who  deemed  it  shame 

And  sin  to  give  their  work  a  name. 

They  halted  at  a  low-browed  porch, 

And  Brent  to  Allan  gave  the  torch, 

While  bolt  and  chain  he  backward  rolled, 

And  made  the  bar  unhasp  its  hold. 

They  entered  —  'twas  a  prison-room 

Of  stern  security  and  gloom, 

Yet  not  a  dungeon ;  for  the  day 

Through  lofty  gratings  found  its  way, 

And  rude  and  antique  garniture 

Decked  the  sad  walls  and  oaken  floor; 

Such  as  the  rugged  days  of  old. 

Deemed  fit  for  captive  noble's  hold. 

"Here,"  said  De  Brent,  "thou  raay'st  remain 

Till  the  Leach  visit  him  again. 

Strict  is  his  charge,  the  warders  tell, 

To  tend  the  noble  prisoner  well." 

Retiring  then  the  bolt  he  drew, 

And  the  lock's  murmurs  growled  anew. 

Roused  at  the  sound,  from  lowly  bed 

A  captive  feebly  raised  his  head ; 

The  %yondering  Minstrel  looked,  and  knew 

Not  his  dear  lord,  but  Roderick  Dhu  ! 

For,  come  from  where  Clan-Alpine  fought, 

They,  erring,  deemed  the  Chief  he  sought 


As  the  tall  ship,  whose  lofty  prore 
Shall  never  stem  the  billows  more. 
Deserted  by  her  gallant  band. 
Amid  the  breakers  lies  astrand, 
So,  on  his  couch,  lay  Roderick  Dhu! 
And  oft  his  fevered  limbs  he  threw 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  455 

In  toss  abrupt,  as  when  her  sides    '         (, 

Lie  rocking  in  the  advancing  tides, 

That  shake  her  frame  with  ceaseless  beat,\ 

Yet  cannot  heave  her  from  her  seat. 

Oh !  how  unlike  her  course  on  sea ! 

Or  his  free  step  on  hill  and  lea !  — 

Soon  as  the  Minstrel  he  could  scan, 

"  What  of  thy  lady  ?  —  of  my  clan  ?  — 

My  Mother?  —  Douglas?  —  tell  me  all! 

Have  they  been  ruined  in  my  fall? 

Ah,  yes !  or  wherefore  art  thou  here ! 

Yet  speak  —  speak  boldly!  —  do  not  fear." 

(For  Allan,  who  his  mood  well  knew, 

Was  choked  with  grief  and  terror  too.) 

«Who  fought?  — who  fled?    Old  man,  be  brief; 

Some  might  —  for  they  had  lost  their  Chief. 

Who  basely  live  ?  —  who  bravely  died  ?  " 

"Oh,  calm  thee,  Chief!"  the  Minstrel  cried, 

«  Ellen  is  safe :  "  —  «  For  that,  thank  Heaven ! " 

"And  hopes  are  for  the  Douglas  given; 

The  Lady  Margaret  too  is  well, 

And,  for  thy  clan — on  field  or  fell, 

Has  never  harp  of  minstrel  told. 

Of  combat  fought  so  true  and  bold. 

Thy  stately  pine  is  still  unbent, 

Though  many  a  goodly  bough  is  rent" 


The  Chieftain  reared  his  form  on  high, 
And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye ; 
But  ghastly,  pale,  and  livid  streaks 
Checkered  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks. 
—  "  Hark,  Minstrel !  I  have  heard  thee  play 
With  measure  bold  on  festal  day, 


THE    LADY    Ol-"    THE    LAXE. 

In  yon  lone  isle  . . .  again  where  ne'er 

Shall  harper  play,  or  warrior  hear . . . 

That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high, 

O'er  Derraid's  race  our  victory. 

Strike  it!  —  and  then  (for  well  thou  canst) 

Free  from  thy  minstrel-spirit  glanced, 

Fling  me  the  picture  of  the  fight, 

When  met  my  clan  the  Saxon  might. 

I'll  listen,  till  my  fancy  hears 

The  clang  of  swords,  the  crash  of  spears! 

These  grates,  these  walls,  shall  vanish  then, 

For  the  fair  field  of  fighting  men. 

And  my  free  spirit  burst  away, 

As  if  it  soared  from  battle  fray." 

The  trembling  bard  with  awe  obeyed  — 

Slow  on  the  harp  his  hand  he  laid  ; 

But  soon  remembrance  of  the  sight 

He  witnessed  from  the  mountain's  height, 

With  what  old  Bertram  told  at  night. 

Awakened  the  full  power  of  song. 

And  bore  him  in  career  along ;  — 

As  shallop  launched  on  river's  tide, 

That  slow  and  fearful  leaves  the  side, 

But,  when  it  feels  the  middle  stream. 

Drives  downward  swift  as  lightning's  beam. 

BATTLE  OF  BEAL'  AN  DUINE. 

"  The  Minstrel  came  once  more  to  view 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Ben-venue, 
For,  ere  he  parted,  he  would  say. 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch-Achray  — 
Where  shall  he  find,  in  foreign  land, 
So  lone  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand !  — 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  457 

There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern, 
No  ripple  on  the  lake, 
i     Upon  her  eyrie  nods  the  erne, 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake ; 
)     The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud. 
The  springing  trout  lies  still. 
So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder  cloud. 
That  swathes,  as  with  a  purple  shroud, 

Benledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 
That  mutters  deep  and  dread. 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  measured  tread  ? 
Is  it  the  lightning's  quivering  glance 

That  on  the  thicket  streams, 
Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance. 
The  sun's  retiring  beams  ? 
—  I  see  the  dagger-crest  of  Mar, 
I  see  the  Moray's  silver  star. 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war. 
That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far! 
To  hero  boune  for  battle  strife. 

Or  bard  of  martial  lay, 
'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  hfe, 
One  glance  at  their  array! 


"Then-  light-armed  archers  far  and  near 
Surveyed  the  tangled  ground. 

Their  centre  ranks,  with  pike  and  spear, 
A  twilight  forest  frowned. 

Their  barbed  horsemen,  in  the  rear. 
The  stern  battalia  crowned.  < 


458  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

^    No  cymbal  clashed,  no  clarion  rang, 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armor's  clang. 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to  shake, 

Or  wave  their  flags  abroad ; 
Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seemed  to  quake, 

That  shadowed  o'er  their  road. 
Their  vaward  scouts  no  tidings  bring, 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe, 
Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing. 

Save  when  they  stirred  the  roe; 
The  host  moves,  like  a  .deep  sea- wave. 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave. 

High-swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 
The  lake  is  passed,  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain. 
Before  the  Trosachs'  rugged  jaws ; 
And  here  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause, 
While,  to  explore  the  dangerous  glen. 
Dive  through  the  pass  the  archer-men. 

"  At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell. 
As  all  the  fiends,  from  heaven  that  fell. 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of  hell ! 
Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven. 
Like  chaff  before  the  wind  of  heaven, 

The  archery  appear: 
For  life!  for  life!  their  flight  they  ply— • 
And  shriek,  and  shout,  and  battle-cry. 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high. 
And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Are  maddening  in  their  rear. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


459 


Onward  they  drive,  in  dreadful  race, 

Pursuers  and  pursued ; 
Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase, 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place. 

The  spearmen's  twilight  wood? 
— '  Down,  down,'  cried  Mar,  *  your  lances  down ! 

Bear  back  both  friend  and  foe!' 
Like  reeds  before  the  tempest's  frown, 
That  serried  grove  of  lances  brown 

At  once  lay  levelled  low  ;• 
And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side, 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide. 
—  *  We'll  quell  the  savage  mountaineer, 

As  their  Tinchel  cows  the  game! 
They  come  as  fleet  as  forest  deer. 

We'll  drive  them  back  as  tame.' 


"Bearing  before  them,  in  their  course. 
The  relics  of  the  archer  force. 
Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam, 
Right  onward  did  Clan-Alpine  come. 
Above  the  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light. 

Each  targe  was  dark  below ; 
And  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing, 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest's  wing. 
They  hurled  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash. 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash; 
I  heard  the  broadsword's  deadly  clang. 
As  if  an  hundred  anvils  rang! 
But  JVloray  wheeled  his  rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan- Alpine's  flank  — 


460  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

'  My  banner-man  advance !  - ! 

I  see,'  he  cried,  their  column  shake. 
Now,  gallants !  for  your  ladies'  sake, 

Upon  them  with  the  lance ! ' 
The  horsemen  dashed  among  the  rout, 

As  deer  break  through  the  broom ; 
Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are  out, 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 
Clan- Alpine's  best  are  backward  borne  — 

Where,  where  was  Roderick  then! 
One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men. 
And  refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear 

The  battle's  tide  was  poured ; 
Vanished  the  Saxon's  struggling  spear, 

Vanished  the  mountain  sword. 
As  Bracklinn's  chasm,  so  black  and  steep, 

Receives  her  roaring  linn, 
As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 

Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in, 
So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
Devour  the  battle's  mingled  mass  ; 
None  linger  now  upon  the  plain, 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 


"  Now  westward  rolls  the  battle's  din, 
That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within. 
Minstrel,  away !  the  work  of  fate 
Is  bearing  on :  its  issue  wait. 
Where  the  rude  Trosachs'  dread  defile 
Opens  on  Katrine's  lake  and  isle. 
Gray  Ben-venue  I  soon  repassed, 
Loch-Katrine  lay  beneath  me  cast 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  461 

The  sun  is  set  —  the  clouds  are  met  — 
The  lowering  scowl  of  heaven 

An  inky  hue  of  livid  blue 
To  the  deep  lake  has  given; 
Strange  gusts  of  wind  from  mountain  glen 
Swept  o'er  the  lake,  then  sunk  agen. 
I  heeded  not  the  eddying  surge, 
Mine  eye  but  saw  the  Trosachs'  gorge, 
Mine  ear  but  heard  that  sullen  sound. 
Which  like  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  spoke  the  stern  and  desperate  strife 
That  parts  not  but  with  partmg  life, 
\  Seeming,  to  minstrel-ear,  to  toll 
The  dirge  of  many  a  passing  soul. 

Nearer  it  comes — the  dim- wood  glen 

The  martial  flood  disgorged  agen, 
But  not  in  mingled  tide  ; 
The  plaided  warriors  of  the  North, 
High  on  the  mountain  thunder  forth, 

And  overhang  its  side  ; 
While  by  the  lake  below  appears 
The  darkening  cloud  of  Saxon  spears. 
At  weary  bay  each  shattered  band. 
Eyeing  their  foemen,  sternly  stand; 
Their  banners  stream  like  tattered  sail. 
That  flings  its  fragment  to  the  gale, 
And  broken  arms  and  disarray 
Marked  the  fell  havoc  of  the  day. 

"Viewing  the  mountain's  ridge  askance, 
The  Saxons  stood  in  sullen  trance. 
Till  Moray  pointed  with  his  lance, 
And  cried  —  'Behold  yon  isle! 

39* 


102  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

See!  none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand, 
But  women  weak,  that  wring  the  hand: 
'Tis  there  of  yore  the  robber  band 

Their  booty  wont  to  pile ;  — 
My  purse,  with  bonnet-pieces  store, 
To  him.  will  swim  a  bow-shot  o'er. 
And  loose  a  shallop  from  the  shore. 
Lightly  we'll  tame  the  war-wolf  then, 
Lords  of  his  mate,  and  brood,  and  den. 
Forth  from  the  ranks  a  spearman  sprung, 
On  earth  his  casque  and  corslet  rung, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  wave :  — 
All  saw  the  deed  —  the  purpose  knew, 
And  to  their  clamors  Ben-venue 

A  mingled  echo  gave  ; 
The  Saxons  shout,  their  mate  to  cheer. 
The  helpless  females  scream  for  fear, 
And  yells  for  rage  the  mountaineer. 
'Twas  then,  as  by  the  outcry  riven, 
Poured  down  at  once  the  lowering  heaven ; 
A  whirlwind  swept  Loch-Katrine's  breast. 
Her  billows  reared  their  snowy  crest 
Well  for  the  swimmer  swelled  they  high. 
To  mar  the  Highland  marksman's  eye ; 
For  round  him  showered,  'mid  rain  and  hail, 
The  vengeful  arrows  of  the  Gael. 
In  vain.     He  nears  the  isle  —  and  lo  ! 
His  hand  is  on  a  shallop's  bow. 
—  Just  then  a  flash  of  lightning  came, 
It  tinged  the  waves  and  strand  with  flame; 
I  marked  Duncraggan's  widowed  dame. 
Behind  an  oak  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  naked  dirk  gleamed  in  her  hand :  —  ^ 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

It  darkened  —  but  amid  tlie  moan 
Of  waves  I  heard  a  dying  groan ;  — 
Another  flash !  the  spearman  floats 
A  weltering  corse  beside  the  boats, 
And  the  stern  Matron  o'er  him  stood, 
Her  hand  and  dagger  streaming  blood. 


" '  Revenge  !  revenge  ! '  the  Saxons  cried, 

The  Gaels'  exulting  shout  replied. 

Despite  the  elemental  rage. 

Again  they  hurried  to  engage; 

But,  ere  they  closed  in  desperate  fight, 

Bloody  with  spurring  came  a  knight, 

Sprang  from  his  horse,  and,  from  a  crag. 

Waved  'twixt  the  hosts  a  milk-white  flag. 

Clarion  and  trumpet  by  his  side 

Rang  forth  a  truce-note  high  and  wide, 

While,  in  the  Monarch's  name,  afar 

A  herald's  voice  forbade  the  war. 

For  Both  well's  iord,  and  Roderick  bold. 

Were  both,  he  said,  in  captive  hold." 

—  But  here  the  lay  made  sudden  stand. 

The  harp  escaped  the  minstrel's  hand  ! 

Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance,  to  spy 

How  Roderick  brooked  his  minstrelsy: 

At  first,  the  Chieftain,  to  the  chime. 

With  lifted  hand,  kept  feeble  time ; 

That  motion  ceased  —  yet  feeling  strong 

Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song; 

At  length,  no  more  his  deafened  ear 

The  minstrel  melody  can  hear ; 

His  face  grows  sharp  —  his  hands  are  clenched, 

As  if  some  pang  his  heart-strings  wrenched ; 


464  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 

Is  sternly  fixed  on  vacancy, 

Thus,  motionless  and  moanless,  drew 

His  parting-breath,  stout  Roderick  Dhu !  — 

Old  Allan-bane  looked  on  aghast. 

While  grim  and  still  his  spirit  passed; 

But  when  he  saw  that  life  Avas  fled. 

He  poured  his  wailing  o'er  the  dead. 

LAMENT. 

"  And  art  thou  cold,  and  lowly  laid, 
Thy  foeman's  dread,  thy  people's  aid, 
Breadalbane's  boast.  Clan- Alpine's  shade; 
For  thee  shall  none  a  requiem  say ! 
—  For  thee,  who  loved  the  minstrel's  lay, 
For  thee,  of  Bothwell's  house  the  stay. 
The  shelter  of  her  exiled  line. 
E'en  in  this  prison-house  of  thine, 
I'll  wail  for  Alpine's  honored  pine ! 

"What  groans  shall  yonder  valleys  fill! 
What  shrieks  of  grief  shall  rend  yon  hill ! 
What  tears  of  burning  rage  shall  thrill, 
When  mourns  thy  tribe  thy  battles  done, 
Thy  fall  before  the  race  was  won, 
Thy  sword  ungirt  ere  set  of  sun ! 
There  breathes  not  clansman  of  thy  line, 
But  would  have  given  his  life  for  thine. 
Oh  wo  for  Alpine's  honored  pine ! 

"  Sad  was  thy  lot  on  mortal  stage  !  — 
The  captive  thrush  may  brook  the  cage, 
The  prisoned  eagle  dies  for  rage. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Brave  spirit,  do  not  scorn  my  strain! 
And,  when  its  notes  awake  again, 
Even  she,  so  long  beloved  in  vain, 
Shall  with  my  harp  her  voice  combine. 
And  mix  her  wo  and  tears  with  mine, 
To  wail  Clan-Alpine's  honored  pine." 


Ellen,  the  while,  with  bursting  heart. 

Remained  in  lordly  bower  apart. 

Where  played,  with  many-colored  gleams. 

Through  storied  pane  the  rising  beams. 

In  vain  on  gilded  roof  they  fall. 

And  lightened  up  a  tapestried  wall, 

And  for  her  use  a  menial  train 

A  rich  collation  spread  in  vain. 

The  banquet  proud,  the  chamber  gay 

Scarce  drew  one  curious  glance  astray; 

Or,  if  she  looked,  'twas  but  to  say. 

With  better  omen  dawned  the  day 

In  that  lone  isle,  where  waved  on  high 

The  dun  deer's  hide  for  canopy; 

Where  oft  her  noble  father  shared 

The  simple  meal  her  care  prepared. 

While  Lufra,  crouching  by  her  side, 

Her  station  claimed  with  jealous  pride ; 

And  Douglas,  bent  on  woodland  game, 

Spoke  of  the  chase  to  Malcolm  Grsme, 

Whose  answer,  oft  at  random  made. 

The  wandering  of  his  thoughts  betrayed  — 

Those  who  such  simple  joys  have  known. 

Are  taught  to  prize  them  when  they're  gone. 

But  sudden,  see,  she  lifts  her  head ! 

Th3  window  seeks  with  cautious  tread. 


466  THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 

What  distant  music  has  the  power 
To  win  her  in  this  woful  hour! 
'Twas  froYn  a  turret  that  o'erhung 
Her  latticed  bower,  the  strain  was  sung. 


LAY  OF  THE  IMPRISONED  HUNTSMAN. 

'  "My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
My  idle  grayhound  loathes  his  food, 

'  My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall, 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were  as  I  have  been. 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forests  green. 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free, 
For  that's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 

"I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time. 
From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime, 
Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl. 
Inch  after  inch,  along  the  wall. 
The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring, 
The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing; 
These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be, 
Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

*^No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes. 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through, 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet. 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee  — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me ! " 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  i 

The  heart-sick  lay  was  hardly  said, 

The  list'ner  had  not  turned  her  head, 

It  trickled  still,  the  starting  tear. 

When  light  a  footstep  struck  her  ear, 

And  Snowdoun's  graceful  Knight  was  near. 

She  turned  the  hastier,  lest  again 

The  prisoner  should  renew  his  strain. 

"  Oh  welcome,  brave  Fitz-James  !  "  she  said ; 

"  How  may  an  almost  orphan  maid 

Pay  the  deep  debt"    "Oh  say  not  so. 

To  me  no  gratitude  you  owe. 

Not  mine,  alas !  the  boon  to  give. 

And  bid  thy  noble  fatlier  live ; 

I  can  but  be  thy  guide,  sweet  maid, 

With  Scotland's  King  thy  suit  to  aid: 

No  tyrant  he,  though  ire  and  pride 

May  lead  his  better  mood  aside. 

Come,  Ellen,  come  !  —  'tis  more  than  time ; 

He  holds  his  court  at  morning  prime." 

With  beating  heart,  and  bosom  wrung, 

As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung. 

Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear. 

And  gently  whispered  hope  and  cheer; 

Her  faltering  steps  half  led,  half  staid, 

Through  gallery  fair  and  high  arcade,     i 

Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 

A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 


Within  'twas  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright; 
It  glowed  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight. 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, , 


468  THE  LADY  OK  THE  LAKE. 

And,  from  their  tissue,  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  staid, 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made, 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised, 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed ; 
For  him  she  sought,  who  owned  this  state, 
The  dreaded  prince  whose  will  was  fate! 
She  gazed  on  many  a  princely  port. 
Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court ; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed  — 
Then  turned  bcAvildered  and  amazed, 
For  all  stood  bare;  and,  in  the  room, 
Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent, 
On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent; 
Midst  furs,  and  silks,  and  jewels  sheen. 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green. 
The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring  — 
And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King! 


As  wreath  of  snow  on  mountain  breast. 
Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest. 
Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay. 
And  at  the  Monarch's  feet  she  lay,; 
No  word  her  choking  voice  commands  — 
She  showed  the  ring  —  she  clasped  her  hands. 
Oh !  not  a  moment  could  he  brook. 
The  generous  prince,  that  suppliant  look ! 
Gently  he  raised  her  —  and  the  while 
Checked  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile. 
Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kissed. 
And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismissed  — 


THE   LADY    OF    THE    LAKE.  A 

"Yes,  Fair;  the  wandering  poor  Fitz-James 

The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 

To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes,  bring. 

He  will  redeem  his  signet-ring. 

Ask  naught  for  Douglas  —  yester  even 

His  prince  and  he  have  much  forgiven: 

Wrong  hath  he  had  from  slanderous  tongue, 

I,  from  his  rebel  kinsmen,  wrong. 

We  would  not  to  the  vulgar  crowd 

Yield  what  they  craved  with  clamor  loud; 

Calmly  we  heard  and  judged  his  cause, 

Our  council  aided  and  our  laws. 

I  stanched  thy  father's  death-feud  stern, 

With  stout  De  Vaux  and  gray  Glencairn; 

And  Bothwell's  Lord  henceforth  we  own 

The  friend  and  bulwark  of  our  Throne. 

But,  lovely  infidel,  how  now  ? 

What  clouds  thy  misbelieving  brow  ? 

Lord  James  of  Douglas,  lend  thine  aid; 

Thou  must  confirm  this  doubting  maid." 


Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung. 

And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung. 

The  Monarch  drank,  that  happy  hour. 

The  sweetest,  holiest  draught  of  power  — 

When  it  can  say,  with  godlike  voice. 

Arise,  sad  Virtue,  and  rejoice ! 

Yet  would  not  James  the  general  eye 

On  nature's  raptures  long  should  pry; 

He  stepped  between  —  "Nay,  Douglas,  nay, 

Steal  not  my  proselyte  away  I 

The  riddle  'tis  my  right  to  read, 

That  brought  this  happy  chance  to  speed. 


470  THE    JLADlf    OF    THE    LAKE. 

Yes,  Ellen,  when  disguised  I  stray, 

In  life's  more  low  but  happier  way, 

Tis  under  name  which  veils  ray  power, 

Nor  falsely  veils  —  for  Stirling's  tower 

Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims. 

And  Normans  call  me  James  Fitz-James. 

Thus  watch  I  o'er  insulted  laws. 

Thus  learn  to  right  tlie  injured  cause." 

Then,  in  a  tone  apart  and  low, 

— "  Ah,  little  trait'ress !  none  must  know 

What  idle  dream,  what  lighter  thought, 

What  vanity  full  dearly  bought. 

Joined  to  thine  eye's  dark  witchcraft,  drew 

My  spell-bound  steps  to  Ben-venue, 

In  dangerous  hour,  and  all  but  gave 

Thy  Monarch's  life  to  mountain  glaive !  " 

Aloud  he  spoke  —  "Thou  still  dost  hold 

That  little  talisman  of  gold. 

Pledge  of  my  faith,  Fitz-James's  ring  — 

What  seeks  fair  Ellen  of  the  King?" 

Full  well  the  conscious  maiden  guessed, 
He  probed  the  weakness  of  her  breast; 
But,  with  that  consciousness,  there  came 
A  lightening  of  her, fears  for  Gresme, 
And  more  she  deemed  the  Monarch's  ire 
Kindled  'gainst  him,  who,  for  her  sire, 
Rebellious  broadsword  boldly  drew ; 
And  to  her  generous  feeling  true. 
She  craved  the  grace  of  Roderick  Dhu. 
"  Forbear  thy  suit :  —  the  King  of  kings 
Alone  can  stay  life's  parting  wings. 
I  know  his  heart,  I  know  his  hand. 
Have  shared  his  cheer,  and  proved  his  brand ;  • 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.  471 

My  fairest  earldom  would  1  give 
To  bid  Clan- Alpine's  Chieftain  live! 
Hast  thou  no  other  boon  to  crave  ?  — 
No  other  captive  friend  to  save  ?  " 
Blushing,  she  turned  her  from  the  King", 
And  to  the  Douglas  gave  the  ring, 
As  if  she  wished  her  sire  to  speak 
The  suit  that  stained  her  glowing  cheek. 
"Nay,  then,  my  pledge  has  lost  its  force, 
And  stubborn  justice  holds  her  course. 
"  Malcolm,  com6  forth  ! "  —  And,  at  the  word, 
Down  kneeled  the  Graeme  to  Scotland's  Lord. 
"For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  suppliant  sues, 
From  thee  may  Vengeance  claim  her  dues, 
Who,  nurtured  underneath  our  smile. 
Hast  paid  our  care  by  treacherous  wile, 
And  sought  amid  thy  faithful  clan, 
A  refuge  for  an  outlawed  man. 
Dishonoring  thus  thy  loyal  name  — 
Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Grseme ! " 
His  chain  of  gold  the  King  unstrung. 
The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flung, 
Then  gently  drew  the  glittering  band. 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand. 


Harp  of  the  North,  farewell!     The  hills  grow  dark, 

On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  descending; 
In  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights  her  spark. 

The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert  wending. 

Resume  thy  wizard  elm !  the  fountain  lending. 
And  the  wild  breeze,  thy  wilder  minstrelsy ; 

Thy  numbers  sweet  with  Nature's  vespers  blending, 


479  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE. 

With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea, 

And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum  of  housing  bee. 

/Yet,  once  again,  farewell,  thou  Minstrel  Harp ! 
Yet,  once  again,  forgive  my  feeble  sway, 
And  little  reck  I  of  the  censure  sharp 
May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 
Much  have  I  owed  thy  strains  on  life's  long  way, 
Through  secret  woes  the  world  has  never  known, 
When  on  the  weary  night  dawned  wearier  day. 
And  bitterer  was  the  grief  devoured  alone. 
"vThat  I  o'erlive  such  woes,  Enchantress  !  is  thine  own. 

Hark!  as  my  lingering  footsteps  slow  retire. 

Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  waked  thy  string! 
'Tis  now  a  Seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire, 

'Tis  now  the  brush  of  Fairy's  frolic  wing. 

Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 
Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged  dell. 

And  now  the  mountain-breezes  scarcely  bring 
A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant  spell  — 
And  now,  'tis  silent  all!  —  Enchantress,  fare-thee-well! 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Lives  there  a  strain,  whose  sounds  of  mounting 

fire 
May  rise  distinguished  o'er  the  din  of  war, 
Or  died  it  with  yon  master  of  the  lyre. 
Who  sung  beleaguered  Ilion's  evil  star  ? 
Such,  Wellington,  might  reach  thee  from  afar, 
Wafting  its  descant  wide  o'er  Ocean's  range  ; 
Nor  shouts,  nor  clashing  arms,  its  mood  could  mar. 
All  as  it  swelled  'twixt  each  loud  trumpet-change. 
That  clang  to  Britain  victory,  to  Portugal  revenge ! 

II. 

Yes  !  such  a  strain,  with  all-o'erpowering  measure, 
Might  melodize  with  each  tumultuous  sound, 
Each  voice  of  fear  or  triumph,  wo  or  pleasure. 
That  rings  Mondego's  ravaged  shores  around ; 
The  thundering  cry  of  hosts  with  conquest  crowned, 
The  female  shriek,  the  ruined  peasants  moan. 
The  shout  of  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 
The  foiled  oppressor's  deep  and  sullen  groan, 
A  nation's  choral  hymn  for  tyranny  o'erthrown. 


476  INTRODUCTION. 


But  we  weak  minstrels  of  a  laggard  day, 
Skilled  but  to  imitate  an  elder  page, 
Timid  and  raptureless,  can  we  repay 
The  debt  thou  claim'st  in  this  exhausted  age  ? 
Thou  giv'st  our  lyres  a  theme,  that  might  engage 
Those  that  could  send  thy  name  o'er  sea  and  land, 
While  sea  and  land  shall  last ;  for  Homer's  rage 
A  theme  ;  a  theme  for  Milton's  mighty  hand  — 
How  much  unmeet  for  us,  a  faint  degenerate  band ! 


Ye  mountains  stern !  within  whose  rugged  breast 

The  friends  of  Scottish  freedom  found  repose  ; 

Ye  torrents !  whose  hoarse  sounds  have  soothed  their 

rest. 
Returning  from  the  field  of  vanquished  foes ; 
Say,  have  ye  lost  each  wild  majestic  close. 
That  erst  the  choir  of  bards  or  druids  flung, 
What  time  their  hymn  of  victory  arose. 
And  Cattraeth's  glens  with  voice  of  triumph  rung, 
And  mystic  Merlin  harped,  and  gray-haired  Llywarch 

sung. 

V. 

O  !  if  your  wilds  such  minstrelsy  retain. 
As  sure  your  changeful  gales  seem  oft  to  say, 
When  sweeping  wild  and  sinking  soft  again. 
Like  trumpet-jubilee,  or  harp's  wild  sway  ; 
If  ye  can  echo  such  triumphant  lay. 
Then  lend  the  note  to  him  has  loved  you  long. 
Who  pious  gathered  each  tradition  gray. 
That  floats  your  solitary  wastes  along. 
And  with  affection  vain  gave  them  new  voice  in  song. 


INTRODUCTION.  477 


VI. 


For  not  till  now,  how  soft  soe'er  the  task 
Of  truant  verse  hath  lightened  graver  care, 
From  muse  or  sylvan  was  he  wont  to  ask, 
In  phrase  poetic,  inspiration  fair ; 
Careless  he  gave  his  numbers  to  the  air,  — 
They  came  unsought  for,  if  applauses  came ; 
Nor  for  himself  prefers  he  now  the  prayer; 
Let  but  his  verse  befit  a  hero's  fame. 
Immortal  be  the  verse !  —  forgot  the  poet's  name. 

vn. 

Hark,  from  yon  misty  cairn  their  answer  tossed : 
"  Minstrel !  the  fame  of  whose  romantic  lyre, 
Capricious  swelling  now,  may  soon  be  lost. 
Like  the  light  flickering  of  a  cottage  fire  : 
If  to  such  task  presumptuous  thou  aspire, 
Seek  not  from  us  the  meed  to  warrior  due  ; 
Age  after  age  has  gathered  son  to  sire. 
Since  our  gray  cliflTs  the  din  of  conflict  knew. 
Or,  pealing  through  our  vales,  victorious  bugles  blew. 


"  Decayed  our  old  traditionary  lore. 
Save  where  the  lingering  fays  renew  their  ring, 
By  milkmaid  seen  beneath  the  hawthorn  hoar. 
Or  round  the  marge  of  Minchmore's  haunted  spring  ; 
Save  where  their  legends  gray-haired  shepherds  sing. 
That  now  scarce  win  a  listening  ear  but  thine, 
Of  feuds  obscure,  and  border  ravaging. 
And  rugged  deeds  recount  in  rugged  line, 
Of  moonlight  foray  made  on  Teviot,  Tweed,  or  Tyne. 


478  INTRODUCTION. 


IX. 


"  No !  search  romantic  lands,  where  the  near  Sun 
Gives  with  unstinted  boon  ethereal  flame, 
Where  the  rude  villager,  his  labor  done, 
In  verse  spontaneous  chants  some  favored  name ; 
Whether  Olalia's  charms  his  tribute  claim. 
Her  eye  of  diamond,  and  her  locks  of  jet ; 
Or  whether,  kindling  at  the  deeds-  of  Grseme, 
He  sing,  to  wild  Morisco  measure  set, 
Old  Albin's  red  claymore,  green  Erin's  bayonet  1 


"  Explore  those  regions,  where  the  flinty  crest 
Of  wild  Nevada  ever  gleams  with  snows, 
Where  in  the  proud  Alhambra's  ruined  breast 
Barbaric  monuments  of  pomp  repose ; 
Or  where  the  banners  of  more  ruthless  foes 
Than  the  fierce  Moor,  float  o'er  Toledo's  fane. 
From  Avhose  tall  towers  even  now  the  patriot  throws 
An  anxious  glance,  to  spy  upon  the  plain 
The  blended  ranks  of  England,  Portugal,  and  Spain. 


"  There,  of  Numantian  fire  a  swarthy  spark 
Still  lightens  in  the  sun-burnt  native's  eye  ; 
The  stately  port,  slow  step,  and  visage  dark. 
Still  mark  enduring  pride  and  constancy  ; 
And,  if  the  glow  of  feudal  chivalry 
Beam  not,  as  once,  thy  nobles'  dearest  pride, 
Iberia !  oft  thy  crestless  peasantry 
Have  seen  the  plumed  Hidalgo  quit  their  side. 
Have  seen,  yet  dauntless  stood  — 'gainst  fortune  fought 
and  died. 


INTRODUCTION. 


479 


"  And  cherished  still  by  that  unchanging  race, 
Are  themes  for  minstrelsy  more  high  than  thine  ; 
Of  strange  tradition  many  a  mystic  trace, 
Legend  and  vision,  prophecy  and  sign ; 
Where  wonders  wild  of  arabesque  combine 
With  Gothic  imagery  of  darker  shade. 
Forming  a  model  meet  for  minstrel  line. 
Go,  seek  such  theme!" — The  Mountain  Spirit  said; 
With  filial  awe  I  heard  —  I  heard,  and  I  obeyed. 


THE  VISION  OF  DON  RODERICK. 


Rearing  their  crests  amid  the  cloudless  skies, 
And  darkly  clustering  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Toledo's  holy  towers  and  spires  arise. 
As  from  a  trembling  lake  of  silver  white  ; 
Their  mingled  shadows  intercept  the  sight 
Of  the  broad  burial-ground  outstretched  below, 
And  naught  disturbs  the  silence  of  the  night ; 
All  sleeps  in  sullen  shade  or  silver  glow. 
All  save  the  heavy  swell  of  Teio's  ceaseless  flow. 


All  save  the  rushing  swell  of  Teio's  tide, 
Or,  distant  heard,  a  courser's  neigh  or  tramp ; 
Their  changing  rounds  as  watchful  horsemen  ride. 
To  guard  the  limits  of  King  Roderick's  camp. 
For,  through  the  river's  night-fog  rolling  damp. 
Was  many  a  proud  pavilion  dimly  seen. 
Which  glimmered  back,  against  the  moon's  fair  lamp, 
Tissues  of  silk  and  silver  twisted  sheen, 
And  standards  proudly  pitched,  and  warders  armed 
between. 


THE    VISION    or    DON    RODERICK.  48J 


But  of  their  Monarch's  person  keeping  ward, 
Since  list  the  deep-mouthed  bell  of  vespers  tolled, 
The  chosen  soldiers  of  the  royal  guard 
Their  post  beneath  the  proud  Cathedral  hold : 
A  band  unlike  their  Gothic  sires  of  old, 
Who,  for  the  cap  of  steel  and  iron  mace. 
Bear  slender  darts,  and  casques  bedecked  with  gold, 
While  silver-studded  belts  their  shoulders  grace. 
Where  ivory  quivers  ring  in  the  broad  falchion's  place. 


In  the  light  language  of  an  idle  court. 
They  murmured  at  their  master's  long  delay. 
And  held  his  lengthened  orisons  in  sport : 
"  What !  will  Don  Roderick  here  till  morning  stay, 
To  wear  in  shrift  and  prayer  the  night  away  ? 
And  are  his  hours  in  such  dull  penance  past. 
For  fair  Florinda's  plundered  charms  to  pay  ?  " 
Then  to  the  east  their  weary  eyes  they  cast. 
And  wished  the  lingering  dawn  would  glimmer  forth 
at  last 


But,  far  within,  Toledo's  Prelate  lent 
An  ear  of  fearful  wonder  to  the  King ; 
The  silver  lamp  a  fitful  lustre  sent. 
So  long  that  sad  confession  witnessing : 
For  Roderick  told  of  many  a  hidden  thing. 
Such  as  are  lothly  uttered  to  the  air, 
When  Fear,  Remorse,  and  Shame,  the  bosom  wring, 
And  Guilt  his  secret  burthen  cannot  bear. 
And  Conscience  seeks  in  speech  a  respite  from  Despair. 


482  THE    VISION    OF    DON   RODERICK. 


Full  on  the  Prelate's  face,  and  silver  hair, 
The  stream  of  failing-  light  was  feebly  rolled ; 
But  Roderick's  visage,  though  his  head  was  bare,'- 
Was  shadowed  by  his  hand  and  mantle's  fold. 
While  of  his  hidden  soul  the  sins  he  told, 
Proud  Alaric's  descendant  could  not  brook. 
That  mortal  man  his  bearing  should  behold, 
Or  boast  that  he  had  seen,  when  conscience  shook, 
Pear  tame  a  monarch's  brow,  Remorse  a  warrior's  look. 


The  old  man's  faded  cheek  waxed  yet  more  pale, 
As  many  a  secret  sad  the  king  bewrayed ; 
And  sign  and  glance  eked  out  the  unfinished  tale, 
When  in  the  midst  his  faltering  whisper  staid. 
"  Thus  royal  Witiza  was  slain,"  —  he  said  ; 
"  Yet,  holy  father,  deem  not  it  was  I."  — 
Thus  still  Ambition  strives  her  crimes  to  shade  — 
"  O  rather  deem  'twas  stern  necessity  ! 
Self-preservation  bade,  and  I  must  kill  or  die. 


"  And,  if  Florinda's  shrieks  alarmed  the  air, 
If  she  invoked  her  absent  sire  in  vain, 
And  on  her  knees  implored  that  I  would  spare. 
Yet,  reverend  priest,  thy  sentence  rash  refrain  !  — 
All  is  not  as  it  seems  —  the  female  train 
Know  by  their  bearing  to  disguise  their  mood : " 
But  Conscience  here,  as  if  in  high  disdain, 
Sent  to  the  Monarch's  cheek  the  burning  blood  — 
He  stayed  his  speech  abrupt  —  and  up  the  Prelate  stood. 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK.  483 

IX. 

"  O  hardened  offspring  of  an  iron  race  ! 

What  of  thy  crimes,  Don  Roderick,  shall  I  say? 

What  alms,  or  prayers,  or  penance  can  efface 

Murder's  dark  spot,  wash  treason's  stain  away ! 

For  the  foul  ravisher  how  shall  I  pray, 

Who,  scarce  repentant,  makes  his  crime  his  boast  ? 

How  hope  Almighty  vengeance  shall  delay, 


I  Unless,  in  mercy  to  yon  Christian  host, 


He  spare  the  shepherd,  lest  the  guileless  sheep  be 
lost."  — 

X. 

Then  kindled  the  dark  tyrant  in  his  mood. 
And  to  his  brow  returned  its  dauntless  gloom ; 
"  And  welcome  then,"  he  cried,  "  be  blood  for  blood, 
For  treason  treachery,  for  dishonor  doom ! 
Yet  will  I  know  whence  come  they,  or  by  whom. 
Show,  for  thou  canst  —  give  forth  the  fated  key, 
And  guide  me.  Priest,  to  that  mysterious  room, 
Where,  if  aught  true  in  old  tradition  be, 
His  nation's  future  fates  a  Spanish  King  shall  see." 

XI. 

"  Ill-fated  Prince  !  recall  tlie  desperate  word. 
Or  pause  ere  yet  the  omen  thou  obey ! 
Bethink,  yon  spell-bound  portal  would  afford 
Never  to  former  Monarch  entrance-way ; 
Nor  shall  it  ever  ope,  old  records  say, 
Save  to  a  King,  the  last  of  all  his  line. 
What  time  his  empire  totters  to  decay, 
And  treason  digs,  beneath,  her  fatal  mine, 
And,  high  above,  impends  avenging  wrath  divine."  — 


4§4 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


—  '  Prelate  !  a  Monarch's  fate  brooks  no  delay ! 
Lead  on ! "  —  The  ponderous  key  the  old  man  took, 
And  held  the  winking  lamp,  and  led  the  way 
By  winding  stair,  dark  aisle,  and  secret  nook, 
Then  on  an  ancient  gateway  bent  his  look  ; 
And,  as  the  key  the  desperate  King  essayed, 
Low  muttered  thunders  the  Cathedral  shook. 
And  twice  he  stopped,  and  twice  new  effort  made, 
Till  the  huge  bolts  rolled  back,  and  the  loud  hinges 
brayed. 

xnf. 

Long,  large,  and  lofty,  was  that  vaulted  hall ; 
Roof,  walls,  and  floor,  were  all  of  marble  stone. 
Of  polished  marble,  black  as  funeral  pall, 
Carved  o'er  with  signs  and  characters  unknown. 
A  paly  light  as  of  the  dawning,  shone  [spy ; 

Through  the  sad  bounds,  but  whence  they  could  not 
For  window  to  the  upper  air  was  none  ; 
Yet,  by  that  light,  Don  Roderick  could  descry 
Wonders  that  ne'er  till  then  were  seen  by  mortal  eye. 

XIV. 

Grim  sentinels,  against  the  upper  wall. 
Of  molten  bronze,  two  Statues  held  their  place ; 
Massive  their  naked  limbs,  their  stature  tall, 
Their  frowning  foreheads  golden  circles  grace. 
Moulded  they  seemed  for  kings  of  giant  race. 
That  lived  and  sinned  before  the  avenging  flood. 
This  grasped  a  scythe,  that  rested  on  a  mace ; 
This  spread  his  wings  for  flight,  that  pondering  stood, 
Each  stubborn  seemed  and  stern,  immutable  of  mood. 


THE    VISION   OF    DON   RODERICK.  485 


Fixed  was  the  right-hand  Giant's  brazen  look 
Upon  his  brother's  glass  of  shifting  sand, 
As  if  its  ebb  he  measured  by  a  book, 
Whose  iron  volume  loaded  his  huge  hand ; 
In  M^hich  was  wrote  of  many  a  failing  land. 
Of  empires  lost,  and  kings  to  exile  driven ; 
And  o'er  that  pair  their  names  in  scroll  expand  — 
"Lo,  Destiny  and  Time  !  to  whom  by  Heaven 
The  guidance  of  the  earth  is  for  a  season  given."  — 

XVI. 

Even  while  they  read,  the  sand-glass  wastes  away ; 
And,  as  the  last  and  lagging  grains  did  creep, 
That  right-hand  Giant  did  his  club  upsway, 
As  one  that  startles  from  a  heavy  sleep. 
Full  on  the  upper  wall  the  mace's  sweep 
At  once  descended  with  the  force  of  thunder, 
And,  hurling  down  at  once,  in  crumbled  heap, 
The  marble  boundary  was  rent  asunder. 
And  gave  to  Roderick's  view  new  sights  of  fear  and 
wonder, 

XVII. 

For  they  might  spy,  beyond  that  mighty  breach, 
Realms  as  of  Spain  in  visioned  prospect  laid, 
Castles  and  towers,  in  due  proportion  each. 
As  by  some  skillful  artist's  hand  portrayed ; 
Here,  crossed  by  many  a  wild  Sierra's  shade, 
And  boundless  plains  that  tire  the  traveller's  eye ; 
There,  rich  with  vineyard  and  with  olive-glade, . 
Or  deep-embrowned  by  forests  huge  and  high, 
Or  washed  by  mighty  streams,  that  slowly  murmured  by. 

41* 


48iS  TH£    VISION   OF    DON   RODERICK. 

XVIIf. 

And  here,  as  erst  upon  the  antique  stage, 
Passed  forth  the  bands  of  maskers  trimly  led, 
In  various  forms,  and  various  equipage. 
While  fitting  strains  the  hearer's  fancy  fed ; 
So,  to  sad  Roderick's  eye  in  order  spread, 
Successive  pageants  filled  that  mystic  scene, 
Showing  the  fate  of  battles  ere  they  bled. 
And  issue  of  events  that  had  not  been ; 
And  ever  and  anon  strange  sounds  were  heard  between. 


First  shrilled  an  unrepeated  female  shriek !  — 
It  seemed  as  if  Don  Roderick  knew  the  call, 
For  the  bold  blood  was  blanching  in  his  cheek.  — 
Then  answered  kettle-drum  and  atabal. 
Gong-peal  and  cymbal-clank  the  ear  appal,  ^ 

The  Tecbir  war-cry,  and  the  Lelies  yell. 
Ring  wildly  dissonant  along  the  hall. 
Need  not  to  Roderick  their  dread  import  tell  — 
«  The  Moor  ! "  he  cried,  "  the  Moor  !  —  ring  out  the 
tocsin  bell ! 

XX. 

"They  come  !  they  come  !  I  see  the  groaning  lands 
White  with  the  turbans  of  each  Arab  horde. 
Swart  Zaarah  joins  her  misbelieving  bands. 
Alia  and  Mahomet  their  battle-word, 
The  choice  they  yield  the  Koran  or  the  sword  — 
See  how  the  Christians  rush  to  arms  amayi !  — 
In  yonder  shout  the  voice  of  conflict  roared  ; 
The  shadowy  hosts  are  closing  on  the  plain  — 
Now,  God  and  St.  lago  strike,  for  the  good  cause  of 
Spain !    • 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK.  487 

XXI. 

"  By  heaven,  the  Moors  prevail !  the  Christians  yield ! 
Their  coward  leader  gives  for  flight  the  sign ! 
The  sceptred  craven  mounts  to  quit  the  field  — 
Is  not  yon  steed  Orelia  ?  —  Yes,  'tis  mine  ! 
But  never  was  she  turned  from  battle-line  ;  — 
Lo  !  where  the  recreant  spurs  o'er  stock  and  stone ! 
Curses  pursue  the  slave  and  wrath  divine ! 
Rivers  engulf  him!"  —  "Hush,"  in  shuddering  tone, 
The  Prelate  said;  "rash  Prince,  yon  visioned  form's 
thine  own."  — 

XXII. 

Just  then,  a  torrent  crossed  the  flier's  course  ; 
The  dangerous  ford  the  Kingly  Likeness  tried ; 
But  the  deep  eddies  whelmed  both  man  and  horse, 
Swept  like  benighted  peasant  down  the  tide  ; 
And  the  proud  Moslemah  spread  far  and  wide. 
As  numerous  as  their  native  locust  band  ; 
Berber  and  Ismael's  sons  the  spoils  divide, 
With  naked  scimetars  mete  out  the  land. 
And  for  their  bondsmen  base  the  free-bom  natives 
brand. 


Then  rose  the  grated  Harem,  to  enclose 
The  loveliest  maidens  of  the  Christian  line  ; 
Then,  menials  to  their  misbelieving  foes, 
Castile's  young  nobles  held  forbidden  wine  ; 
Then,  too,  the  holy  Cross,  salvation's  sign. 
By  impious  hands  was  from  the  altar  thrown, 
And  the  deep  aisles  of  the  polluted  shrine 
Echoed,  for  holy  hymn  and  organ  tone, 
The  Santon's    frantic    dance,  the  Fakir's  gibbering 
moan. 


4SSS  THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


How  fares  Don  Roderick  ?  —  E'en  as  one  who  spies 
Flames  dart  their  glare  o'er  midnight's  sable  woof, 
And  hears  around  his  children's  piercing  cries, 
And  sees  the  pale  assistants  stand  aloof; 
While  cruel  Conscience  brings  him  bitter  proof, 
His  folly,  or  his  crime,  have  caused  his  grief; 
And,  while  above  him  nods  the  crumbling  roof, 
He  curses  earth  and  heaven  —  himself  in  chief — 
Desperate  of  earthly  aid,  despairing  Heaven's  relief! 


That  scythe-armed  Giant  turned  his  fatal  glass, 
And  twilight  on  the  landscape  closed  her  wings  ; 
Far  to  Asturian  hills  the  war-sounds  pass. 
And  in  their  stead  rebeck  or  timbrel  rings  ; 
And  to  the  sound  the  bell-decked  dancer  springs, 
Bazars  resound  as  when  their  marts  are  met, 
In  tourney  light  the  Moor  his  jerreed  flings. 
And  on  the  land,  as  evening  seemed  to  set. 
The  Inmaun's  chant  was  heard  from  mosque  or  minaret. 


So  passed  that  pageant     Ere  another  came. 
The  visionary  scene  was  wrapped  in  smoke,   [flame; 
Whose  sulph'rous  wreaths  were  crossed  by  sheets  of 
With  every  flash  a  bolt  explosive  broke. 
Till  Roderick  deemed  the  fiends  had  burst  their  yoke, 
And  waved  'gainst  heaven  the  infernal  gonfalone  ! 
For  War  a  new  and  dreadful  language  spoke. 
Never  by  ancient  warrior  heard  or  known ; 
Lightning  and  smoke  her  breath,  and  thunder  was  her 
tone. 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK.  489 

XXVII. 

Prom  the  dim  landscape  roll  the  clouds  away  — 
The  Christians  have  regained  their  heritage ; 
Before  the  Cross  has  waned  the  Crescent's  ray, 
And  many  a  monastery  decks  the  stage, 
And  lofty  church,  and  low-browed  hermitage. 
The  land  obeys  a  Hermit  and  a  Knight,  — 
The  Genii  these  of  Spain  for  many  an  age  ; 
This  clad  in  sackcloth,  that  in  armor  bright, 
And  that  was  Valor  named,  this  Bigotry  was  highL 


Valor  was  harnessed  like  a  Chief  of  old. 
Armed  at  all  points,  and  prompt  for  knightly  gest ; 
His  sword  was  tempered  in  the  Ebro  cold, 
Morena's  eagle-plume  adorned  his  crest. 
The  spoils  of  Afric's  lion  bound  his  breast. 
Fierce  he  stepped  forward,  and  flung  down  his  gage, 
As  if  of  mortal  kind  to  brave  the  best. 
Him  followed  his  Companion,  dark  and  sage, 
As  he,  my  Master,  sung  the  dangerous  Archimage. 

XXIX. 

Haughty  of  heart  and  brow  the  Warrior  came. 
In  look  and  language  proud  as  proud  might  be, 
Vaunting  his  lordship,  lineage,  fights  and  fame, 
Yet  wast  that  bare-foot  Monk  more  proud  than  he ; 
And  as  the  ivy  climbs  the  tallest  tree, 
So  round  the  loftiest  soul  his  toils  he  wound. 
And  with  his  spells  subdued  the  fierce  and  free. 
Till  ermined  Age,  and  Youth  in  arms  renowned,. 
Honoring  his  scourge  and  hair-cloth,  meekly  kissed  the 
ground. 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


And  thus  it  chanced  that  Valor,  peerless  Knight, 
Who  ne'er  to  King  or  Kaiser  veiled  his  crest, 
Victorious  still  in  bull-feast,  or  in  fight. 
Since  first  his  limbs  with  mail  he  did  invest, 
Stooped  ever  to  that  Anchoret's  behest ; 
Nor  reasoned  of  the  right  nor  of  the  wrong, 
But  at  his  bidding  laid  the  lance  in  rest. 
And  wrought  fell  deeds  the  troubled  world  along, 
For  he  was  fierce  as  brave,  and  pitiless  as  strong. 


Oft  his  proud  galleys  sought  some  new-found  world. 
That  latest  sees  the  sun,  or  first  the  morn  ; 
Still  at  that  Wizard's  feet  their  spoils  he  hurled,  — 
Ingots  of  ore  from  rich  Potosi  borne. 
Crowns  by  Caciques,  aigrettes  by  Omrahs  worn, 
Wrought  of  rare  gems,  but  broken,  rent,  and  foul ; 
Idols  of  gold  from  heathen  temples  torn. 
Bedabbled  all  with  blood.  —  With  grisly  scowl 
The  Hermit  marked  the  stains,  and  smiled  beneath  his 
cowl. 

XXXII. 

Then  did  he  bless  the  offering,  and  bade  make 
Tribute  to  heaven  of  gratitude  and  praise ; 
And  at  his  word  the  choral  hymns  awake, 
And  many  a  hand  the  silver  censer  sways. 
But  with  the  incense-breath  these  censers  raise, 
Mix  steams  from  corpses  smouldering  in  the  fixe  ; 
The  groans  of  prisoned  victims  mar  the  lays, 
And  shrieks  of  agony  confound  the  quire. 
While,  'mid  the  mingled  sounds,  the  darkened  scenes 
expire. 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK.  491 


Preluding  light,  were  strains  of  music  heard, 
As  once  again  revolved  that  measured  sand  ; 
Such  sounds  as  when,  for  sylvan  dance  prepared, 
Gay  Xeres  summons  forth  her  vintage  band ; 
When  for  the  light  Bolero  ready  stand 
The  Mozo  blithe,  with  gay  Muchacha  met. 
He  conscious  of  his  broidered  cap  and  band. 
She  of  her  netted  locks  and  light  corsette. 
Each  tiptoe  perched  to  spring,  and  shake  the  castanet. 


And  Avell  guch  strains  the  opening  scene  became  ; 
For  Valor  had  relaxed  his  ardent  look, 
And  at  a  lady's  feet,  like  lion  tame, 
Lay  stretched,  full  loth  the  weight  of  arms  to  brook ; 
And  softened  Bigotry,  upon  his  book, 
Pattered  a  task  of  little  good  or  ill ; 
But  the  blithe  peasant  plied  his  pruning-hook, 
Whistled  the  muleteer  o'er  vale  and  hill. 
And  rung  from  village-green  the  merry  Seguidille. 


Gray  Royalty,  grown  impotent  of  toil, 
Let  the  grave  sceptre  slip  his  lazy  hold, 
And  careless  saw  his  rule  become  the  spoil 
Of  a  loose  Female  and  her  Minion  bold  ; 
But  peace  was  on  the  cottage  and  the  fold. 
From  court  intrigue,  from  bickering  faction  far ; 
Beneath  the  chestnut-tree  Love's  tale  was  told ; 
And  to  the  tinkling  of  the  light  guitar. 
Sweet  stooped  the  western  sun,  sweet  rose  the  evening 
star. 


^192  THE    VISIONS    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


As  that  sea-cloud,  in  size  like  human  hand 
When  first  from  Carmel  by  the  Tishbite  seen, 
Came  slowly  overshadowing  Israel's  land, 
Awhile,  perchance,  bedecked  with  colors  sheen, 
While  yet  the  sunbeams  on  its  skirts  had  been, 
Limning  with  purple  and  with  gold  its  shroud. 
Till  darker  folds  obscured  the  blue  serene, 
And  blotted  heaven  with  one  broad  sable  cloud  — 
Then  sheeted  rain  burst  down,  and  whirlwinds  howled 
aloud ;  — 

XXXVII. 

Even  so  upon  that  peaceful  scene  was  poured. 
Like  gathering  clouds,  full  many  a  foreign  band. 
And  He,  their  Leader,  wore  in  sheath  his  sword, 
And  offered  peaceful  front  and  open  hand  ; 
Veiling  the  perjured  treachery  he  planned. 
By  friendship's  zeal  and  honor's  specious  guise, 
Until  he  won  the  passes  of  the  land ; 
Then,  burst  were  honor's  oath,  and  friendship's  ties ! 
He  clutched  his  vulture-grasp,  and  called  fan:  Spain 
his  prize. 

XXXVIII. 

An  Iron  Crown  his  anxious  forehead  bore  ; 
And  well  such  diadem  his  heart  became. 
Who  ne'er  his  purpose  for  remorse  gave  o'er, 
Or  checked  his  course  for  piety  or  shame ; 
Who,  trained  a  soldier,  deemed  a  soldier's  fame 
Might  flourish  in  the  wreath  of  battles  won, 
Though  neither  truth  nor  honor  decked  his  name ; 
Who,  placed  by  fortune  on  a  Monarch's  throne. 
Recked  not  of  Monarch's  faith,  or  Mercy's  kingly 
tone. 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK.  493 


From  a  rude  isle  his  ruder  lineage  came : 
The  spark,  that,  from  a  suburb  hovel's  hearth 
Ascending-,  wraps  some  capital  in  flame, 
Hath  not  a  meaner  or  more  sordid  birth. 
And  for  the  soul  that  bade  him  waste  the  earth  — 
The  sable  land-flood  from  some  swamp  obscure. 
That  poisons  the  glad  husband-field  with  dearth. 
And  by  destruction  bids  its  fame  endure. 
Hath  not  a  source  more  sullen,  stagnant,  and  impure. 


Before  that  Leader  strode  a  shadowy  Form : 
Her  limbs  like  mist,  her  torch  like  meteor  showed. 
With  which  she  beckoned  him  through  fight  and  storm, 
And  all  he  crushed  that  crossed  his  desperate  road, 
Nor  thought,  nor  feared,  nor  looked  on  what  he  trode ; 
Realms  could  not  glut  his  pride,  blood  could  not  slake, 
So  oft  as  e'er  she  shook  her  torch  abroad  — 
It  was  Ambition  bade  his  terrors  wake. 
Nor  deigned  she,  as  of  yore,  a  milder  form  to  take. 


No  longer  now  she  spurned  at  mean  revenge. 
Or  stayed  her  hand  for  conquered  foeman's  moan, 
As  when,  the  fates  of  aged  Rome  to  change, 
By  Csesar's  side  she  crossed  the  Rubicon ; 
Nor  joyed  she  to  bestow  the  spoils  she  won, 
As  when  the  banded  powers  of  Greece  were  tasked 
To  war  beneath  the  Youth  of  Macedon  : 
No  seemly  veil  her  modern  minion  asked, 
He  saw  her  hideous  face,  and  loved  the  fiend  un- 
masked. 

42 


494  THE    VISION    OF    I>ON    RODERICK. 


That  Prelate  marked  his  march  —  On  banners  blazed 
With  battles  won  in  many  a  distant  land, 
On  eagle-standards  and  on  arms  he  gazed ;     [stand  ? 
"  And  hop'st  thou,  then,"  he  said  "  thy  power  shall 
O  thou  hast  builded  on  the  shifting  sand, 
And  thou  hast  tempered  it  with  slaughter's  flood ; 
And  know,  fell  scourge  in  the  Almighty's  hand ! 
Gore-moistened  trees  shall  perish  in  the  bud, 
And,  by  a  bloody  death,  shall  die  the  Man  of  Blood ! 


The  ruthless  Leader  beckoned  from  his  train 
A  wan  fraternal  Shade,  and  bade  him  kneel. 
And  paled  his  temples  with  the  crown  of  Spain, 
While  trumpets  rang,  and  heralds  cried,  "  Castile ! " 
Not  that  he  loved  him  —  No  !  —  in  no  man's  weal, 
Scarce  in  his  own,  e'er  joyed  that  sullen  heart ; 
Yet  round  that  throne  he  bade  his  warriors  wheel, 
That  the  poor  puppet  might  perform  his  part, 
And  be  a  sceptred  slave,  at  his  stern  beck  to  start 


But  on  the  Natives  of  that  Land  misused. 
Not  long  the  silence  of  amazement  hung. 
Nor  brooked  they  long  their  friendly  faith  abused, 
For,  with  a  common  shriek,  the  general  tongue 
Exclaimed,  "  To  arms ! "  and  fast  to  arms  they  sprung 
And  Valor  woke,  that  Genius  of  the  land ! 
Pleasure,  and  ease,  and  sloth  aside  he  flung. 
As  burst  the  awakening  Nazarite  his  band, 
When  'gainst  his  treacherous  foes  he  clenched  his 
dreadful  hand. 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK.  495 


That  mimic  Monarch  now  cast  anxious  eye 
Upon  the  Satraps  that  begirt  him  round, 
Now  doffed  his  royal  robe  in  act  to  fly, 
And  from  his  brow  the  diadem  unbound. 
So  oft,  so  near,  the  Patriot  bugle  wound, 
From  Tarik's  walls  to  Bilboa's  mountains  blown ; 
These  martial  satelites  hard  labor  found, 
To  guard  awhile  his  substituted  throne  — 
Light  recking  of  his  cause,  but  battling  for  their  own. 


From  Alpuhara's  peak  that  bugle  rung. 
And  it  was  echoed  from  Corunna's  wall ;  "; 

Stately  Seville  responsive  war-shout  flung, 
Granada  caught  it  in  her  Moorish  hall ; 
Galicia  bade  her  children  fight  or  fall. 
Wild  Biscay  shook  his  mountain  coronet, 
Valencia  roused  her  at  the  battle-call. 
And,  foremost  still  where  Valor's  sons  are  met, 
Fast  started  to  his  gun  each  fiery  Miquelet 

XLVII. 

But  unappalled,  and  burning  for  the  fight, 
The  Invaders  march,  of  victory  secure  ; 
Skillful  their  force  to  sever  or  unite. 
And  trained  alike  to  vanquish  or  endure. 
Nor  skillful  less,  cheap  conquest  to  ensure, 
Discord  to  breathe,  and  jealousy  to  sow, 
To  quell  by  boasting,  and  by  bribes  to  lure  ; 
While  naught  against  them  bring  the  unpracticed  foe, 
Save  hearts  for  freedom's  cause,  and  hands  for  free- 
dom's blow. 


406  THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


Proudly  they  march  —  but  O  !  they  march  not  forth 
By  one  hot  field  to  crown  a  brief  campaign, 
As  when  their  eagles,  sweeping  through  the  North, 
Destroyed  at  every  stoop  an  ancient  reign ! 
Far  other  fate  had  heaven  decreed  for  Spain ; 
In  vain  the  steel,  in  vain  the  torch  was  plied. 
New  Patriot  armies  started  from  the  slain. 
High  blazed  the  war,  and  long,  and  far  and  wide, 
And  oft  the  God  of  Battles  blessed  the  righteous  side. 


Nor  unatoned,  where  Freedom's  foes  prevail, 
Remained  their  savage  waste.   With  blade  and  brand, 
By  day  the  Invaders  ravaged  hill  and  dale, 
But,  with  the  darkness,  the  Guerilla  band 
Came  like  night's  tempest,  and  avenged  the  land. 
And  claimed  for  blood  the  retribution  due, 
Probed  the  hard  heart,  and  lopped  the  murderous  hand ; 
And  Dawn,  when  o'er  the  scene  her  beams  she  threw, 
'Midst  ruins  they  had  made  the  spoilers'  corpses  knew. 


What  minstrel  verse  may  sing,  or  tongue  may  tell. 
Amid  the  visioned  strife  from  sea  to  sea. 
How  oft  the  Patriot  banners  rose  or  fell, 
Still  honored  in  defeat  as  victory  ! 
For  that  sad  pageant  of  events  to  be. 
Showed  every  form  of  fight  by  field  and  flood ; 
Slaughter  and  Ruin,  shouting  forth  their  glee, 
Beheld,  while  riding  on  the  tempest-scud. 
The  waters  choked  with  slain,  the  earth  bedrenched 
with  blood ! 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK.  ^7 


Then  Zaragoza  —  blighted  be  the  tongue 
That  names  thy  name  without  the  honor  due  ! 
For  never  hath  the  harp  of  minstrel  rung, 
Of  faith  so  felly  proved,  so  firmly  true  ! 
Mine,  sap,  and  bomb,  thy  shattered  ruins  knew ; 
Each  art  of  war's  extremity  had  room. 
Twice  from  thy  half-sacked  streets  the  foe  withdrew, 
And  when  at  length  stern  Fate  decreed  thy  doom, 
They  won  not  Zaragoza,  but  her  children's  bloody  tomb. 

LII. 

Yet  raise  thy  head,  sad  City  !     Though  in  chains, 
Enthralled  thou  canst  not  be !     Arise  and  claim 
Reverence  from  every  heart  where  Freedom  reigns, 
For  what  thou  worshippest !  —  thy  sainted  Dame, 
She  of  the  Column,  honored  be  her  name. 
By  all,  whate'er  their  creed,  who  honor  love ! 
And  like  the  sacred  relics  of  the  flame. 
That  gave  some  martyr  to  the  blest  above. 
To  every  loyal  heart  may  thy  sad  embers  prove  ! 


Nor  thine  alone  such  wreck !     Gerona  fair ! 
Faithful  to  death,  thy  heroes  should  be  sung. 
Manning  the  towers,  while  o'er  their  heads  the  air 
Swart  as  the  smoke  from  raging  furnace  hung ; 
Now  thicker  darkening  where  the  mine  was  sprung, 
Now  briefly  lightened  by  the  cannon's  flare, 
Now  arched  with  fire-sparks  as  the  bomb  was  flung 
And  reddening  now  with  conflagration's  glare. 
While  by  the  fatal  light  the  foes  for  storm  prepare. 

42* 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


While  all  around  was  danger,  strife,  and  fear, 
While  the  earth  shook,  and  darkened  was  the  sky, 
And  wide  Destruction  stunned  the  listening  ear, 
Appalled  the  heart,  and  stupified  the  eye,  — 
Afar  was  heard  that  thrice-repeated  cry, 
In  which  old  Albion's  heart  and  tongue  unite, 
Whene'er  her  soul  is  up  and  pulse  beats  high, 
Whether  it  hail  the  wine-cup  or  the  fight, 
And  bid  each  arm  be  strong,  or  bid  each  heart  be  light 


Don  Roderick  turned  him  as  the  shout  grew  loud  — 
A  varied  scene  the  changeful  vision  showed, 
For  where  the  ocean  mingled  with  the  cloud, 
A  gallant  navy  stemmed  the  billows  broad. 
From  mast  and  stem  St  George's  symbol  flowed, 
Blent  with  the  silver  cross  to  Scotland  dear ; 
Mottling  the  sea  their  landward  barges  rowed, 
And  flashed  the  sun  on  bayonet,  brand,  and  spear, 
And  the  wild  beach  returned  the  seaman's  jovial  cheer. 

LVI. 

It  was  a  dread,  yet  spirit-stirring  sight ! 
The  billows  foamed  beneath  a  thousand  oars. 
Fast  as  they  land  the  red-cross  ranks  unite. 
Legions  on  legions  brightening  all  the  shores. 
Then  banners  rise,  and  cannon-signal  roars. 
Then  peals  the  warlike  thunder  of  the  drum, 
Thrills  the  loud  fife,  the  trumpet-flourish  pours. 
And  patriot  hopes  awake,  and  doubts  are  dumb, 
For,  bold  in  Freedom's  cause,  the  bands  of  Ocean  come 


THE    VISION    OF    DOA    RODERICK.  4yy 

LVII.   "^ 

A  various  host  they  came  —  whose  ranks  display- 
Each  mode  in  which  the  warrior  meets  the  fight ; 
The  deep  battallion  locks  its  firm  array, 
And  meditates  his  aim  the  marksman  light ; 
Far  glance  the  lines  of  sabres  flashing  bright, 
Where  mounted  squadrons  shake  the  echoing  mead, 
Lacks  not  artillery  breathing  flame  and  night, 
Nor  the  fleet  ordnance  whirled  by  rapid  steed 
That  rivals  lightning's  flash  in  ruin  and  in  speed. 


A  various  host  —  from  kindred  realms  they  came, 
Brethren  in  arms,  but  rivals  in  renown  — 
For  yon  fair  bands  shall  merry  England  claim, 
And  with  their  deeds  of  valor  deck  her  crown. 
Hers  their  bold  port,  and  hers  their  martial  frown, 
And  hers  their  scorn  of  death  in  freedom's  cause. 
Their  eyes  of  azure,  and  their  locks  of  brown, 
And  the  blunt  speech  that  bursts  without  a  pause, 
And  free-born  thoughts,  Avhich  league  the  Soldier  with 
the  Laws. 

LIX. 

And  O !  loved  warriors  of  the  Minstrel's  land ! 
Yonder  your  bonnets  nod,  your  tartans  wave  ! 
The  rugged  form  may  mark  the  mountain  band, 
And  harsher  features,  and  a  mien  more  grave  ; 
But  ne'er  in  battle-field  throbbed  heart  so  brave 
As  that  which  beats  beneath  the  Scottish  plaid, 
And  when  the  pibroch  bids  the  battle  rave. 
And  level  for  the  charge  your  arms  are  laid, 
Where  Uvea  the  desperate  foe,  that  for  such  onset  staid ! 


500  THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


Hark !  from  yon  stately  ranks  what  laughter  rings, 
Mingling  wild  mirth  with  war's  stern  minstrelsy, 
His  jest  Avhile  each  blithe  comrade  round  him  flings. 
And  moves  to  death  with  military  glee : 
Boast,  Erin,  boast  them  !  tameless,  frank,  and  free, 
In  kindness  warm,  and  fierce  in  danger  known. 
Rough  Nature's  children,  humorous  as  she  : 
And  He,  yon  Chieftain  —  strike  the  proudest  tone 
Of  thy  bold  harp,  green  Isle !  —  the  Hero  is  thine  own. 


Now  on  the  scene  Vimeira  should  be  shown. 
On  Talavera's  fight  should  Roderick  gaze. 
And  hear  Corunna  wail  her  battle  won. 
And  see  Busaco's  crest  with  light'ning  blaze  :  — 
But  shall  fond  fable  mix  with  heroes'  praise  ? 
Hath  Fiction's  stage  for  Truth's  long  triumphs  room  ? 
And  dare  her  wild-flowers  mingle  with  the  bays. 
That  claim  a  long  eternity  to  bloom 
Around  the  warrior's  crest,  and  o'er  the  warrior's  tomb ! 


Or  may  I  give  adventurous  Fancy  scope. 
And  stretch  a  bold  hand  to  the  awful  veil 
That  hides  futurity  from  anxious  hope, 
Bidding  beyond  it  scenes  of  glory  hail. 
And  painting  Europe  rousing  at  the  tale 
Of  Spain's  invaders  from  her  confines  hurled. 
While  kindling  Nations  buckle  on  their  mail. 
And  Fame,  with  clarion-blast  and  wings  unfurled, 
To  freedom  and  revenge  awakes  an  injured  World. 


THE    VISION    OF    DON    RODERICK. 


501 


LXIII. 


O  vain,  though  anxious,  is  the  glance  I  cast, 
Since  Fate  has  marked  futurity  her  own :  — 
Yet  Fate  resigns  to  Worth  the  glorious  past, 
The  deeds  recorded  and  the  laurels  won. 
Then,  though  the  Vault  of  Destiny  be  gone, 
King,  Prelate,  all  the  phantasms  ot  my  brain, 
Melted  away  like  mist-wreaths  in  the  sun. 
Yet  grant  for  faith,  for  valor,  and  for  Spain, 
One  note  of  pride  and  fire,  a  Patriot's  parting  strain. 


CONCLUSION. 


"  Who  shall  command  Estrella's  mountain-tide 
Back  to  the  source,  when  tempest-chafed,  to  hie  ? 
Who,  when  Gascogne's  vexed  gulf  is  raging  wide, 
Shall  hush  it  as  "a  nurse  her  infant's  cry  ? 
His  magic  power  let  such  vain  boaster  try, 
And  when  the  torrent  shall  his  voice  obey. 
And  Biscay's  whirlwinds  list  his  lullaby, 
Let  him  stand  forth  and  bar  mine  eagles'  way. 
And  they  shall  heed  his  voice,  and  at  his  bidding  stay. 


"  Else,  ne'er  to  stoop,  till  high  on  Lisbon's  towers 
They  close  their  wings,  the  symbol  of  our  yoke. 
And  their  own  sea  hath  whelmed  yon  red-cross 

Power ! "  — 
Thus,  on  the  summit  of  Alverca's  rock, 
To  Marshal,  Duke,  and  Peer,  Gaul's  leader  spoke : 
While  downward  on  the  land  his  legions  press. 
Before  them  it  was  rich  with  vine  and  flock. 
And  smiled  like  Eden  in  her  summer  dress  ;  — 
Behind  their  wasteful  march,  a  reeking  wilderness. 


CONCLUSION.  503 


And  shall  the  boastful  Chief  maintain  his  word, 
Though  Heaven  hath  heard  the  wailings  of  the  land, 
Though  Lusitania  whet  her  vengeful  sword, 
Though  Briton  arm,  and  Wellington  command ! 
No :  grim  Busaco's  iron  ridge  shall  stand 
An  adamantine  barrier  to  his  force  ! 
And  from  its  base  shall  wheel  his  shattered  band. 
As  from  the  unshaken  rock  the  torrent  hoarse 
Bears  off  its  broken  waves,  and  seeks  a  devious  course. 

IV. 

Yet  not  because  Alcoba's  mountain-hawk 
Hath  on  his  best  and  bravest  made  her  food. 
In  numbers  confident,  yon  Chief  shall  baulk 
His  Lord's  imperial  thirst  for  spoil  and  blood : 
For  full  in  view  the  promised  conquest  stood. 
And  Lisbon's  matrons,  from  their  walls,  might  sum 
The  myriads  that  had  half  the  world  subdued, 
And  hear  the  distant  thunders  of  the  drum. 
That  bids  the  band  of  France  to  storm  and  havoc  come. 


V. 

Four  moons  have  heard  these  thunders  idly  rolled, 
Have  seen  these  wistful  myriads  eye  their  prey. 
As  famished  wolves  survey  a  guarded  fold  — 
But  in  the  middle  path,  a  Lion  lay  ! 
At  length  they  move  —  but  not  to  battle-fray. 
Nor  blaze  yon  fires  where  meets  the  manly  fight ; 
Beacons  of  infamy,  they  light  the  way. 
Where  cowardice  and  cruelty  unite, 
To  damn  with  double  shame  their  ignominious  flight 


|t04  CONCLUSION. 

YI. 

O  triumph  for  the  Fiends  of  Lust  and  Wrath ! 
Ne'er  to  be  told,  yet  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
What  wanton  horrors  marked  their  wrackful  path ! 
The  peasant  butchered  in  his  ruined  cot, 
The  hoary  priest  even  at  the  altar  shot. 
Childhood  and  age  given  o'er  to  sword  and  flame, 
Woman  to  infamy  ;  no  crime  forgot. 
By  which  inventive  demons  might  proclaim 
Immortal  hate  to  Man,  and  scorn  of  God's  great  name ! 


The  rudest  sentinel,  in  Britain  born, 
With  horror  paused  to  view  the  havoc  done, 
Gave  his  poor  crust  to  feed  some  wretch  forlorn, 
Wiped  his  stern  eye,  then  fiercer  grasped  his  gun, 
Nor  with  less  zeal  shall  Britain's  peaceful  son 
Exult  the  debt  of  sympathy  to  pay  ; 
Riches  nor  poverty  the  tax  shall  shun. 
Nor  prince  nor  peer,  the  wealthy  nor  the  gay, 
Nor  the  poor  peasant's  mite,  nor  bard's  more  worthless 
lay. 

VIII.  > 

But  thou  —  unforgotten  wilt  thou  yield  to  Fate, 
Minion  of  Fortune,  now  miscalled  in  vain ! 
Can  vantage-ground  no  confidence  create, 
Marcella's  pass,  nor  Guarda's  mountain  chain  ? 
Vain-glorious  Fugitive  ?  yet  turn  again  ! 
Behold,  where  named  by  some  Prophetic  Seer, 
Flows  Honor's  Fountain,  as  fore-doomed  the  stain 
From  thy  dishonored  name  and  arms  to  clear  — 
Fallen  Child  of  Fortune  turn,  redeem  her  favor  here  ! 


CONCLUSION.  505 


IX. 


Yet,  ere  thou  turn'st,  collect  each  distant  aid : 
Those  chief  that  never  heard  the  Lion  roar ! 
Within  whose  souls  lives  not  a  trace  portrayed 
Of  Talavera,  or  Mondego's  shore  ! 
Marshal  each  band  thou  hast,  and  summon  more ; 
Of  war's  fell  stratagems  exhaust  the  whole ; 
Rank  upon  rank,  squadron  on  squadron  pour, 
Legion  on  legion  on  thy  foeman  roll, 
And  weary  out  his  arm  —  thou  canst  not  quell  his  soul. 

X. 

O  vainly  gleams  with  steel  Agueda's  shore, 
Vainly  thy  squadrons  hide  Assuava's  plain. 
And  front  thy  flying  thunders  as  they  roar. 
With  frantic  charge  and  tenfold  odds,  in  vain ! 
And  what  avails  thee  that,  for  Cameron  slain. 
Wild  from  his  plaided  ranks  the  yell  was  given  — 
Vengeance  and  grief  gave  mountain  rage  the  rein, 
And,  at  the  bloody  spear-point  headlong  driven. 
Thy  Despot's  giant  guards  fled  like  the  rack  of  heaven. 


Go,  baflled  Boaster !  teach  thy  haughty  mood 
To  plead  at  thine  imperious  master's  throne ! 
Say,  thou  hast  left  his  legions  in  their  blood. 
Deceived  his  hopes,  and  frustrated  thine  own ; 
Say,  that  thine  utmost  skill  and  valor  shown. 
By  British  skill  and  valor  were  outvied ; 
Last  say,  thy  conqueror  was  Wellington  ' 
And  if  he  chafe,  be  his  own  fortune  tried  — 
God  and  our  cause  to  'friend,  the  venture  we'll  abide. 

43 


m 


CONCLUSION. 


xn. 


But  ye,  ye  heroes  of  that  well-fought  day, 
How  shall  a  bard,  unknowing  and  unknown, 
His  meed  to  each  victorious  leader  pay, 
Or  bind  on  every  brow  the  laurels  won  ? 
Yet  fain  my  harp  would  wake  its  boldest  tone, 
O'er  the  wide  sea  to  hail  Cadogan  brave  ; 
And  he,  perchance,  the  minstrel  note  might  own. 
Mindful  of  meeting  brief  that  Fortune  gave 
'Mid  yon  far  western  isles,  that  hear  the  Atlantic  rave. 

XIII. 

Yes,  hard  the  task,  when  Britons  wield  the  sword, 
To  give  each  chief  and  every  field  its  fame : 
Hark!  Albuera  thunders  Beresford, 
And  red  Barossa  shouts  for  dauntless  Grjeme  ! 
O  for  a  verse  of  tumult  and  of  flame. 
Bold  as  the  bursting  of  their  cannon  sound. 
To  bid  the  world  re-echo  to  their  fame  ! 
For  never,  upon  gory  battle-ground. 
With  conquest's  well-bought  wreath  were  braver  vic- 
tors crowned  ! 


O  who  shall  grudge  him  Albuera's  bays. 
Who  brought  a  race  degenerate  to  the  field, 
Roused  them  to  emulate  their  fathers'  praise. 
Tempered  their  headlong  rage,  their  courage  steeled, 
And  raised  fair  Lusitania's  fallen  shield. 
And  gave  new  edge  to  Lusitania's  sword. 
And  taught  her  sons  forgotten  arms  to  wield  — 
Shivered  my  harp,  and  burst  its  every  chord. 
If  it  forget  thy  worth,  victorious  Beresford  ! 


CONCLUSION.  507 


Not  on  that  bloody  field  of  battle  won, 
Though  Gaul's  proud  legions  rolled  like  mist  away, 
Was  his  self-devoted  valor  shown,  — 
He  gaged  but  life  on  that  illustrious  day ; 
But  when  he  toiled  those  squadrons  to  array. 
Who  fought  like  Britons  in  the  bloody  game. 
Sharper  than  Polish  pipe  or  assagay. 
He  braved  the  shafts  of  censure  and  of  shame. 
And,  dearer  far  than  life,  he  pledged  a  soldier's  fame. 


Nor  be  his  praise  o'erpassed  who  strove  to  hide 
Beneath  the  warrior's  vest  affection's  wound. 
Whose  wish,  Heaven  for  his  country's  weal  denied ; 
Danger  and  fate  he  sought,  but  glory  found. 
From  clime  to  clime,  where'er  war's  trumpets  sound, 
The  wanderer  went ;  yet,  Caledonia !  still 
Thine  was  his  thought  in  march  and  tented  ground ; 
He  dreamed  'mid  Alpine  cliffs  of  Athole's  hill. 
And  heard  in  Ebro's  roar  his  Lyndoch's  lovely  rill. 

XVII. 

O  hero  of  a  race  renowned  of  old. 
Whose  war-cry  oft  has  waked  the  battle-swell, 
Since  first  distinguished  in  the  onset  bold. 
Wild  sounding  when  the  Roman  rampart  fell ! 
By  Wallace'  side  it  rung  the  Southron's  knell, 
Alderne,  Kilsythe,  and  Tibber  owned  its  fame, 
Tummell's  rude  pass  can  of  its  terrors  tell. 
But  ne'er  from  prouder  field  arose  the  name. 
Than  when  wild  Ronda  learned  the  conquering  shout 
of  Gr^me  ! 


866 


CONCLUSION. 


But  all  too  long  through  seas  unknown  and  dark, 
(With  Spenser's  parable  I  close  my  tale,) 
By  shoal  and  rock  hath  steered  my  venturous  bark ; 
And  landward  now  I  drive  before  the  gale, 
And  now  the  blue  and  distant  shore  I  hail, 
And  nearer  now  I  see  the  port  expand, 
And  now  I  gladly  furl  my  weary  sail, 
And,  as  the  prow-light  touches  on  the  strand, 
I  strike  my  red-cross  flag,  and  bind  my  skiflT  to  land. 


BALLADS,   LYRICAL   PIECES, 
AND    SONGS. 


GLENFINLAS,  OR  LORD  RONALD'S 
CORONACH. 

"O  HONE  a  rie'!  O  hone  a  rie'! 

The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er, 
And  fallen  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree ; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more! 

O,  sprung  from  great  Macgillianore, 
The  chief  who  never  feared  a  foe, 

How  matchless  was  thy  broad  claymore, 
How  deadly  thine  unerring  bow! 

Well  can  the  Saxon  widows  tell, 

How,  on  the  Teith's  resounding  shore, 

The  boldest  Lowland  warriors  fell. 
As  down  from  Lenny's  pass  you  bore. 

But  o'er  his  hills,  on  festal  day, 
How  blazed  Lord  Ronald's  Beltane  tree; 

While  youths  and  maids  the  light  strathspey 
So  nimbly  danced,  with  Highland  glee. 


512  GLENFINLAS. 

Cheered  by  the  strength  of  Ronald's  shell, 
E'en  age  forgot  his  tresses  hoar; 

But  now  the  loud  lament  they  swell, 
O,  ne'er  to  see  Lord  Ronald  more! 

From  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came. 
The  joys  of  Ronald's  hall  to  find. 

And  chase  with  him  the  dark  brown  game 
That  bounds  o'er  Albin's  hills  of  wind. 

*Twas  Moy;  whom,  in  Columba's  isle. 
The  seer's  prophetic  spirit  found. 

As,  with  a  minstrel's  fire  the  while. 
He  waked  his  harp's  harmonious  sound. 

Full  many  a  spell  to  him  was  known. 
Which  wand'ring  spirits  shrink  to  hear; 

And  many  a  lay  of  potent  tone, 
Was  never  meant  for  mortal  ear. 

For  there,  'tis  said,  in  mystic  mood, 
High  converse  with  the  dead  they  hold, 

And  oft  espy  the  fated  shroud, 

That  shall  the  future  corpse  enfold. 

O  so  it  fell,  that  on  a  day, 

To  rouse  the  red  deer  from  their  den, 
The  chiefs  have  ta'en  their  distant  way, 

And  scoured  the  deep  Glenfinlas  glen. 

No  vassals  wait,  their  sports  to  aid, 
To  watch  their  safety,  deck  their  board: 

Their  simple  dress,  the  Highland  plaid. 
Their  trusty  guard,  the  Highland  sword. 


6LENFINLAS.  513 

Three  summer  days,  through  brake  and  dell, 
Their  whistling  shafts  successful  flew; 

And  still,  when  dewy  evening  fell. 
The  quarry  to  their  hut  they  drew. 

In  gray  Glenfinlas'  deepest  nook 

The  solitary  cabin  stood. 
Fast  by  Moneira's  sullen  brook, 

Which  murmurs  through  that  lonely  wood.  - 

Soft  fell  the  night,  the  sky  was  calm, 
When  three  successive  days  had  flown; 

And  summer  mist  in  dewy  balm 
Steeped  heathy  bank  and  mossy  stone. 

The  moon,  half-hid  in  silvery  flakes. 

Afar  her  dubious  radiance  shed, 
Quiv'ring  on  Katrine's  distant  lakes, 

And  resting  on  Benledi's  head. 

Now  in  their  hut,  in  social  guise. 
Their  sylvan  fare  the  chiefs  enjoy; 

And  pleasure  laughs  in  Ronald's  eyes, 
As  many  a  pledge  he  quafls  to  Moy. 

—  "What  lack  we  here  to  crown  our  bliss, 
While  thus  the  pulse  of  joy  beats  high? 

What,  but  fair  woman's  yielding  kiss. 
Her  panting  breath,  and  melting  eye  ? 

"To  chase  the  deer  of  yonder  shades. 
This  morning  left  their  father's  pile 

The  fairest  of  our  mountain  maids. 
The  daughters  of  the  proud  Glengyle. 


SI4  OLENFINLAS. 

"Long  have  I  sought  sweet  Mary's  heart, 
And  dropped  the  tear,  and  heaved  the  sigh: 

But  vain  the  lover's  wily  art,         ' 
Beneath  a  sister's  watchful  eye. 

"But  thou  may'st  teach  that  guardian  fair, 
While  far  with  Mary  I  am  flown, 
i^     Of  other  hearts  to  cease  her  care. 

And  find  it  hard  to  guard  her  own. 

"  Touch  but  thy  harp,  thou  soon  shalt  see      ^ 

The  lovely  Flora  of  Glengyle, 
Unmindful  of  her  charge  and  me. 

Hang  on  thy  notes,  'twixt  tear  and  smile. 

"  Or,  if  she  choose  a  melting  tale. 
All  underneath  the  greenwood  bough. 

Will  good  St.  Oran's  rule  prevail, 

Stern  huntsman  of  the  rigid  brow?"  — 

—  "  Since  Enrick's  fight,  since  Morna's  death, 
No  more  on  me  shall  rapture  rise. 

Responsive  to  the  panting  breath, 
Or  yielding  kiss,  or  melting  eyes. 

"E'en  then,  when  o'er  the  heath  of  wo, 
Where  sunk  my  hopes  of  love  and  fame, 

I  bade  my  harp's  wild  wailings  flow. 
On  me  the  seer's  sad  spirit  came. 

"The  last  dread  curse  of  angry  heaven. 
With  ghastly  sights  and  sounds  of  wo, 

To  dash  each  glimpse  of  joy,  was  given  — 
The  gift,  the  future  ill  to  know. 


GLENFINLAS.  515 

"The  bark  thou  saw'st,  yon  summer  mom, 

So  gayly  part  from  Oban's  bay, 
My  eye  beheld  her  dashed  and  torn, 

Far  on  the  rocky  Colonsay. 

"Thy  Fergus  too  —  thy  sister's  son. 
Thou  saw'st,  with  pride,  the  gallant's  power, 

As  marching  'gainst  the  Lord  of  Downe, 
He  left  the  skirts  of  huge  Benmore. 

"Thou  only  saw'st  their  tartans  wave, 

s  down  Benvoirlich's  side  they  wound, 
JJeard'st  but  the  pibroch,  answ'ring  brave 
To  many  a  target  clanking  round. 

"I  heard  the  groans,  I  marked  the  tears, 

I  saw  the  wound  his  bosom  bore. 
When  on  the  serried  Saxon  Spears 

He  poured  his  clan's  resistless  roar. 

"And  thou,  who  bid'st  me  think  of  bliss, 
And  bid'st  my  heart  awake  to  glee, 

And  court,  like  thee,  the  wanton  kiss. 
That  heart,  O  Ronald,  bleeds  for  thee .' 

"I  see  the  death-damps  chill  thy  brow; 

I  hear  thy  Warning  Spirit  cry; 
The  corpse-lights  dance  —  they're  gone,  and  now— 

No  more  is  given  to  gifted  eye ! " 

"Alone  enjoy  thy  dreary,  dreams, 

Sad  prophet  of  the  evil  hour! 
Say,  should  we  scorn  joy's  transient  beams, 

Because  to-morrow's  storm  may  lower? 


516  GLENFINLAS. 

"  Or  false,  or  sooth,  thy  words  of  wo, 
Clangillian's  chieftain  ne'er  shall  fear; 

His  blood  shall  bound  at  rapture's  glow, 
Though  doomed  to  stain  the  Saxon  spear. 

"  E'en  now,  to  meet  me  in  yon  dell, 
My  Mary's  buskins  brush  the  dew."  — 

He  spoke,  nor  bade  the  chief  farewell, 
But  called  his  dogs,  and  gay  withdrew. 

Within  an  hour  returned  each  hound ; 

In  rushed  the  rousers  of  the  deer ; 
They  howled  in  melancholy  sound,  ^ 

Then  closely  couch  beside  the  Seer. 

No  Ronald  yet ;  though  midnight  came. 
And  sad  were  Moy's  prophetic  dreams. 

As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  flame, 

He  fed  the  watch-fire's  quiv'ring  gleams. 

Sudden  the  hounds  erect  their  ears. 
And  sudden  cease  their  moaning  howl; 

Close  pressed  to  Moy,  they  mark  their  feara 
By  shiv'ring  limbs  and  stifled  growl. 

Untouched,  the  harp  began  to  ring, 
As  softly,  slowly,  oped  the  door; 

And  shook,  responsive,  ev'ry  string. 
As  light  a  footstep  pressed  the  floor. 

And,  by  the  watch-fire's  glim'ring  light, 
Close  by  the  Minstrel's  side  was  seen 

A  huntress  maid,  in  beauty  bright. 
All  dropping  wet  her  robes  of  green. 


GLENFINLAS.  517 

All  dropping  wet  her  garments  seem ; 

Chilled  was  her  cheek,  her  bosom  bare, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  dying  gleam, 

She  wrung  the  moisture  from  her  hair. 

With  maiden  blush  she  softly  said, 
"O  gentle  huntsman,  hast  thou  seen, 

In  deep  Glenfinlas'  moonlight  glade, 
A  lovely  maid  in  vest  of  green : 

"  With  her  a  chief  in  Highland  pride, 
His  shoulders  bear  the  hunter's  bow, 

The  mountain-dirk  adorns  his  side. 
Far  on  the  wind  his  tartans  flow?" 

"And  who  art  thou?  and  who  are  they?" 

All  ghastly  gazing,  Moy  replied: 
"And  why,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

Dare  ye  thus  roam  Glenfinlas'  side?" 

"Where  wild  Loch-Katrine  pours  her  tide, 
Blue,  dark,  and  deep,  round  many  an  isle, 

Our  father's  towers  o'erhang  her  side, 
The  castle  of  the  bold  Glengyle. 

"To  chase  the  dun  Glenfinlas  deer, 

Our  woodland  course  this  mom  we  bore, 

And  haply  met,  while  wand'ring  here. 
The  son  of  great  Macgillianore. 

«0  aid  me,  then,  to  seek  the  pair, 
Whom  loit'ring  in  the  woods  I  lost; 

Alone  I  dare  not  venture  there. 
Where  walks,  they  say,  the  shrieking  ghost" 


518  GLENFINLAS. 

"  Yes,  many  a  shrieking  ghost  walks  there ; 

Then,  first,  my  own  sad  vow  to  keep, 
Here  will  I  pour  my  midnight  prayer. 

Which  still  must  rise  when  mortals  sleep." 

"O  first,  for  pity's  gentle  sake, 

Guide  a  lone  wand'rer  on  her  way! 

For  I  must  cross  the  haunted  brake. 
And  reach  my  father's  tow'rs  ere  day." 

"  First,  three  times  tell  each  Ave  bead, 
And  thrice  a  Pater-noster  say ; 

Then  kiss  with  me  the  holy  reed : 
So  shall  we  safely  wind  our  way." 

"  O  shame  to  knighthood,  strange  and  foul ! 

Go,  doff  the  bonnet  from  thy  brow, 
And  shroud  thee  in  the  monkish  cowl, 

Which  best  befits  thy  sullen  vow. 

"  Not  so,  by  high  Dunlathmon's  fire. 
Thy  heart  was  froze  to  love  and  joy, 

When  gayly  rung  thy  raptured  lyre. 
To  wanton  Morna's  melting  eye." 

Wild  stared  the  Minstrel's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  high  his  sable  locks  arose, 

And  quick  his  color  went  and  came, 
As  fear  and  rage  alternate  rose. 

"  And  thou !  when  by  the  blazing  oak 
I  lay,  to  love  and  her  resigned, 

Say,  rode  ye  on  the  eddying  smoke, 
Or  sailed  ye  on  the  midnight  wind ! 


GliENFINLAS.  519 

"  Not  thine  a  race  of  mortal  blood, 
Nor  old  Glengyle's  pretended  line; 

Thy  dame,  the  Lady  of  the  Flood, 
Thy  sire,  the  Monarch  of  the  Mine." 

He  muttered  thrice  St  Oran's  rhyme. 
And  thrice  St.  Fillan's  pow'rful  prayer 

Then  turned  him  to  the  eastern  clime. 
And  sternly  shook  his  coal-black  hair. 

And,  bending  o'er  his  harp,  he  flung 
His  wildest  witch-notes  on  the  wind  ; 

And  loud,  and  high,  and  strange,  they  rung, 
As  many  a  magic  change  they  find. 

Tall  waxed  the  Spirit's  alt'ring  form. 
Till  to  the  roof  her  stature  grew; 

Then,  mingling  with  the  rising  storm, 
With  one  wild  yell,  away  she  flew. 

Rain  beats,  hail  rattles,  whirlwinds  tear, 
The  slender  hut  in  fragments  flew; 

But  not  a  lock  of  Moy's  loose  hair 
Was  waved  by  wind,  or  wet  by  dew. 

Wild  mingling  with  the  howling  gale. 
Loud  bursts  of  ghastly  laughter  rise ; 

High  o'er  the  Minstrel's  head  they  sail. 
And  die  amid  the  northern  skies. 

The  voice  of  thunder  shook  the  wood,  . 

As  ceased  the  more  than  mortal  yell ;      /. 
And,  spattering  foul,  a  shower  of  blood 

Upon  the  hissing  fire-brands  fell." 


520  GLENFINLAS. 

Next,  dropped  from  high  a  mangled  arm; 

The  fingers  strained  a  half-drawn  blade: 
And  last,  the  life-blood  streaming  warm, 

Torn  from  the  trunk,  a  gasping  head. 

Oft  o'er  that  head,  in  battling  field. 

Streamed  the  proud  crest  of  high  Benmore , 

That  arm  the  broad  claymore  could  wield, 
Which  dyed  the  Teith  with  Saxon  gore. 

Wo  to  Moneira's  sullen  rills! 

Wo  to  Glenfinlas'  dreary  glen! 
There  never  son  of  Albin's  hills 

Shall  draw  the  hunter's  shaft  agen! 

E'en  the  tired  pilgrim's  burning  feet 
At  noon  shall  shun  that  shelt'ring  den, 

Lest,  journeying  in  their  rage,  he  meet 
The  wayward  Ladies  of  the  Glen. 

And  we  —  behind  the  chieftain's  shield. 
No  more  shall  we  in  safety  dwell ; 

None  leads  the  people  to  the  field  — 
And  we  the  loud  lament  must  swell. 

O  hone  a  rie' !  O  hone  a  rie' ! 

The  pride  of  Albin's  line  is  o'er, 
And  fall'n  Glenartney's  stateliest  tree ; 

We  ne'er  shall  see  Lord  Ronald  more! 


(521 


THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  JOHN. 

The  Baron  of  Smaylho'me  rose  with  day, 
He  spurred  his  courser  on, 
/     Without  stop  or  stay,  down  the  rocky  way 
That  leads  to  Brotherstone. 

He  went  not  with  the  bold  Buccleuch, 
His  banner  broad  to  rear ; 
•:>^  He  went  not  'gainst  the  English  yew, 
To  lift  the  Scottish  spear. 

Yet  his  plate-jack  was  braced,  and  his  helmet  was  laced, 
And  hisji^aunt-brace  of  proof  he  wore ; 
'  ■'  At  his  saddle-gerthe  was  a  good  steel  sperthe, 
Full  ten  pound  weight  and  more. 

The  Baron  returned  in  three  days'  space, 
.;;     And  his  looks  were  sad  and  sour; 
'  '    And  weary  was  his  courser's  pace, 
As  he  reached  his  rocky  tower. 

He  came  not  from  where  Ancram  Moor 

Ran  red  with  English  blood ; 
Where  the  Douglas  true,  and  the  bold  Buccleuch 

'Gainst  keen  Lord  Evers  stood. 

Yet  was  his  helmet  hacked  and  hewed. 

His  acton  pierced  and  tore ; 
His  axe  and  his  dagger  with  blood  embrued, 

But  it  was  not  English  gore. 

44* 


522  THE    EVE    OF    SAINT   JOHN. 

He  lighted  at  the  Chapellagc, 
He  held  him  close  and  still; 
•^And  he  whistled  thrice  for  his  little  foot-page, 
His  name  was  English  Will. 

"Come  thou  hither,  my  little  foot-page; 
Come  hither  to  my  knee ; 
//      Thou  art  young,  and  tender  of  age, 
e^-        I  think  thou  art  true  to  me. 

"Come,  tell  me  all  that  thou  hast  seen. 
And  look  thou  tell  me  true ! 
<      Since  I  from  Smaylho'me  tower  have  been, 
What  did  thy  lady  do?" 


"My  lady,  each  night,  sought  the  lonely  light, 
That  burns  on  the  wild  Watchfold; 

For,,  from  height  to  height,  the  beacons  bright^ 
Of  the  English  foemen  told. 


>-; 


cyl 


"  The  bittern  clamored  from  the  moss. 
The  wind  blew  loud  and  shrill ; 

Yet  the  craggy  pathway  she  did  cross, 
To  the  eiry  beacon  hill. 

"I  watched  her  steps,  and  silent  came 
Where  she  sat  her  on  a  stone ; 

No  watchmen  stood  by  the  dreary  flame ; 
It  burned  all  alone. 

"The  second  night  I  kept  her  in  sight, 

Till  to  the  fire  she  came, 
And,  by  Mary's  might!  an  armed  Knight 
Stood  by  the  lonely  flame. 


THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  JOHN.  503 

"And  many  a  word  that  warlike  lord 
Did  speak  to  my  lady  there ; 
C    But  the  rain  fell  fast,  and  loud  blew  the  blast, 
And  I  heard  not  what  they  were. 

"The  third  night  there  the  sky  was  fair, 
And  the  mountain  blast  was  still, 
5  As  again  I  watched  the  secret  pair 
On  the  lonesome  beacon-hill. 

"And  I  heard  her  name  in  the  midnight  hour, 
And  name  this  holy  eve; 
^  i^nd  say,  *  Come  this  night  to  thy  lady's  bower, 
'^    Ask  no  bold  Baron's  leave. 

"'He  lifts  his  spear  with  the  bold  Buccleuch ; 
^    .       His  lady  is  all  alone  ; 
"C.  The  door  she'll  undo  to  her  knight  so  true. 
On  the  eve  of  good  St.  John.' 

" '  I  cannot  come  ;  I  must  not  come ; 

1  dare  not  come  to  thee ; 
On  the  Eve  of  St.  John  I  must  wander  alone: 

In  thy  bower  I  may  not  be.'" 

"'Now  out  on  thee,  faint-hearted  knight! 

Thou  should'st  not  say  me  nay; 
For  the  eve  is  sweet,  and  when  lovers  meet, 

Is  worth  the  whole  summer's  day. 

"'And  I'll  chain  the  bloodhound,  and  the jraxder 
shall  not  sound. 

And  rushes  shall  be  strewed  on  the  stair; 
So,  by  the  black  rood-stone,  and  by  holy  St.  John, 

I  conjure  thee,  my  love,  be  there ! 


524  THE    EVE    or    SAINT   JOHN. 

"'Though   the    bloodhounds  be  mute,  and  the  rush 
beneath  my  foot, 

And  the  warder  his  bugle  should  not  blow, 
Yet  there  sleepeth  a  priest  in  the  chamber  to  the  east, 

And  my  footstep  he  would  know.' 


"'O  fear  not  the  priest,  who  sleepeth  to  the  east! 
'  For  to  Dryburgh  the  way  he  has  ta'en; 
J^^  And  there  to  say  mass,  till  three  days  do  pass. 
For  the  soul  of  a  knight  that  is  slayne.' 


"He  turned  him  around,  and  grimly  he  frowned; 

Then  he  laughed  right  scornfully  — 
'  He  who  says  the  mass-rite  for  the  soul  of  that  knight, 

May  as  well  say  mass  for  me. 

"'At  the  lone  midnight  hour,  when  bad  spirits  havo 
power. 

In  thy  chamber  will  I  be.'  — 
With  that  he  was  gone,  and  my  lady  left  alone. 

And  no  more  did  I  see."  — 


Then  changed,  I  trow,  was  that  bold  Baron's  brow, 
^      From  the  dark  to  the  blood-red  high ; 
^  "  Now,  tell  me  the  mien  of  the  knight  thou  hast  seen, 
For,  by  Mary,  he  shall  die ! " 


/ 


"  His  arms  shone  full  bright,  in  the  beacon's  red  light ; 

His  plume  it  was  scarlet  and  blue ; 
On  his  shield  was  a  hound,  in  a  silver  leash  bound, 

And  his  crest  was  a  branch  of  the  yew." 


THE    EVE    OF    SAINT   JOHN.  525 

"Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  thou  little  foot-page, 

Loud  dost  thou  lie  to  me ! 
For  that  knight  is  cold,  and  low  laid  in  the  mould, 

All  under  the  Eildon-tree." 


"Yet  hear  but  my  word,  my  noble  lord! 
For  I  heard  her  name  his  name; 
/-^  And  that  lady  bright,  she  called  the  knight, 
Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame." 


The  bold  Baron's  brow  then  changed,  I  trow, 

From  high  blood-red  to  pale  — 
"The  grave   is   deep  and  dark — and  the  corpse  la 
/  stiff  and  stark  — 

"*  So  I  may  not  trust  thy  tale. 

"Where  fair  Tweed  flows  round  holy  Melrose, 
,      And  Eildon  slopes  to  the  plain, 
"''  h  Full  three  nights  ago,  by  some  secret  foe, 
That  gay  gallant  was  slain. 

"The  varying  light  deceived  thy  sight, 
And  the  wild  winds  drowned  the  name ; 
V     For  the  Dryburgh  bells  ring,  and  the  white  monks  do 
sing, 
For  Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame'" 


He  passed  the  court-gate,  and  he  oped  the  tower-grate, 

And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair 
To  the  bartizan-seat,  where,  with  maids  that  on  her  wait, 

He  found  his  lady  fair. 


536  THE    EVE    OF    SAINT   JOHIT. 

That  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood ; 
Looked  over  hill  and  dale; 
-^      Over  Tweed's  fair  flood,  and  Mertoun's  wood, 
And  all  down  Teviotdale. 


"  Now  hail,  now  hail,  thou  lady  bright ! " 

"  Now  hail,  thou  Baron  true ! 
What  news,  what  news,  from  Ancram  fight? 

What  news  from  the  bold  Buccleuch?" 


"The  Ancram  Moor  is  red  with  gore. 
For  many  a  southern  fell ; 
d  Buccleuch  has  charged  us,  evermore 
To  watch  our  beacons  well." 


3^, 


The  lady  blushed  red,  but  nothing  she  said ; 

Nor  added  the  Baron  a  word: 
Then  she  stepped  down  the  stair  to  her  chamber  fair, 

And  so  did  her  moody  lord. 

In  sleep   the    lady  mourned,  and  the  Baron  tossed 
and  turned. 
And  oft  to  himself  he  said  — 
"The  worms    around   him   creep,  and   his   bloody 
grave  is  deep .... 
It  cannot  give  up  the  dead!" 


It  was  near  the  ringing  of  matin-bellj 
The  night  was  well  nigh  done. 

When  a  heavy  sleep  on  that  Baron  fell, 
On  the  eve  of  good  St  John. 


THE    EVE    OF    SAINT    JOHN.  527 

The  lady  looked  through  the  chamber  fair, 

By  the  light  of  a  dying  flame ; 
And  she  was  aware  of  a  knight  stood  there  — 

Sir  Richard  of  Coldinghame ! 

"  Alas  !  away,  away  !  "  she  cried, 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake  !  " 
"  Lady,  I  know  who  sleeps  by  thy  side ; 

But,  lady,  he  will  not  awake. 

"By  Eildon-tree,  for  long  nights  three. 

In  bloody  grave  have  I  lain; 
The  mass  and  the  death-prayer  are  said  for  me, 

But,  lady,  they  are  said  in  vain. 

"  By  the  Baron's  brand,  near  Tweed's  fair^trand,^ 

Most  foully  slain  I  fell; 
And  my  restless  sprite  on  the  beacon's  height, 

For  a  space  is  doomed  to  dwell. 

"  At  our  trysting-place,  for  a  certain  space, 

I  must  wander  to  and  fro ; 
But  I  had  not  had  power  to  come  to  thy  bower, 

Had'st  thou  not  conjured  me  so." 

Love  mastered  fear  —  her  brow  she  crossed ; 

"  How,  Richard,  hast  thou  sped  ? 
And  art  thou  saved,  or  art  thou  lost  ? " 

The  Vision  shook  his  head ! 

"Who  spilleth  life,  shall  forfeit  life, 
•   So  bid  thy  lord  believe: 
That  lawless  love  is  guilt  above, 
This  awful  sign  receive." 


dMO  THE    EVE    OF    SAINT    JOHN. 

He  laid  his  left  hand  on  an  oaken  beam; 
His  right  upon  her  hand : 
'^^  The  lady  shrunk,  and  fainting  sunk, 
For  it  scorched  like  a  fiery  brand. 

The  sable  score,  of  fingers  four, 
Remains  on  that  hand  impressed ; 
^^  And  for  evermore  that  lady  wore 
A  covering  on  her  wrist 

There  is  a  Nun  in  Dryburgh  bower. 
Ne'er  looks  upon  the  sun: 
^     There  is  a  Monk  in  Melrose  tower, 
He  speaketh  word  to  none. 

That  Nun,  who  ne'er  beholds  the  day, 
That  Monk,  who  speaks  to  none  — 
/^That  Nun  was  Smaylho'me's  Lady  gay, 
"      That  Monk  the  bold  Baron. 


(529) 


V 


CADYOW  CASTLE. 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 
Ennobled  Cadyow's  Gothic  towers, 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flowed, 
And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 

Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound, 
So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall, 

And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound. 
As  mirth  and  music  cheered  the  hall. 

But  Cadyow's  towers,  in  ruins  laid. 
And  vaults,  by  ivy  mantled  o'er, 

Thrill  to  the  music  of  the  shade, 
Or  echo  Evan's  hoarser  roar. 

Yet  still,  of  Cadyow's  faded  fame. 
You  bid  me  tell  a  minstrel  tale. 

And  tune  my  harp,  of  Border  frame. 
On  the  wild  banks  of  Evandale. 

For  thou,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pride, 
From  pleasure's  lighter  scenes  canst  turn, 

To  draw  oblivion's  pall  aside. 

And  mark  the  long-forgotten  urn. 

Then,  noble  maid!  at  thy  command. 
Again  the  crumbled  walls  shall  rise; 

Lo!  as  on  Evan's  banks  we  stand. 

The  past  returns  — the  present  Hies.— 

45 


530  CADYOW    CASTLE. 

Where  with  the  rock's  wood-covered  side 

Were  blended  late  the  ruin's  green, 
Rise  turrets  in  fantastic  pride, 

And  feudal  banners  flaunt  between: 

Where  the  rude  torrent's  brawling  course 
Was  shagged  with  thorn  and  tangling  sloe, 

The  ashler  buttress  braves  its  force, 
And  ramparts  frown  in  battled  row. 

'Tis  night  —  the  shade  of  keep  and  spire 

Obscurely  dance  on  Evan's  stream, 
And  on  the  wave  the  warder's  fire 

Is  checkering  the  moonlight  beam.  j 

Fades  slow  their  light;  the  east  is  gray; 

The  wary  warder  leaves  his  tower; 
Steeds  snort;  uncoupled  stag-hounds  bay, 

And  merry  hunters  quit  the  bower. 


The  draw-bridge  falls  —  they  hurry  out  — 
Clatters  each  plank  and  swinging  chain, 

As,  dashing  o'er,  the  jovial  route 

Urge  the  shy  steed,  and  slack  the  rein. 

First  of  his  troop,  the  Chief  rode  on: 
His  shouting  merry-men  throng  behind; 

The  steed  of  princely  Hamilton 

Was  fleeter  than  the  mountain  wind. 

From  the  thick  copse  the  roe-bucks  bound, 
The  startling  red-deer  scuds  the  plain ; 

For,  the  hoarse  bugle's  warrior  sound 
Has  roused  their  mountain  haunts  again. 


CADYOW    CASTLE. 


531 


Through  the  huge  oaks  of  Evandale, 

Whose  limbs  a  thousand  years  have  worn, 

What  sullen  roar  comes  down  the  gale, 
And  drowns  the  hunter's  pealing  horn? 

Mightiest  of  all  the  beasts  of  chase 

That  roam  in  woody  Caledon, 
Crashing  the  forest  in  his  race, 

The  Mountain  Bull  comes  thund'ring  on. 

Fierce,  on  the  hunters'  quivered  hand, 
He  rolls  his  eyes  of  swarthy  glow. 

Spurns,  with  black  hoof  and  horn,  the  sand, 
And  tosses  high  his  mane  of  snow. 

Aimed  well,  the  chieftain's  lance  has  flown; 

Struggling  in  blood  the  savage  lies; 
His  roar  is  sunk  in  hollow  groan  — 

Sound,  merry  huntsman !  sound  the  pryse  ! 

'Tis  noon  —  against  the  knotted  oak 
The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear; 

Curls  through  the  trees  the  slender  smoke. 
Where  yeomen  dight  the  woodland  cheer. 

Proudly  the  chieftain  marked  his  clan. 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown, 

Yet  missed  his  eye  the  boldest  man. 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

"Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place. 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  wo  to  share  ? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace  ? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare.?" 


532  CADTOW    CASTLE. 

Stern  Claud  replied,  with  darkening  fa.ce, 
(Gray  Pasley's  haughty  lord  was  he,) 

"  At  merry  feast,  or  buxom  chase, 
No  more  the  warrior  shalt  thou  see. 

"  Few  suns  have  set,  since  Woodhouselee 
Saw  Bothwellhaugh's  bright  goblets  foam. 

When  to  his  hearths,  in  social  glee. 
The  war-worn  soldier  turned  him  home. 

"  There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes. 
His  Marg'ret,  beautiful  and  mild. 

Sate  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose. 

And  peaceful  nursed  her  new-born  child. 

"  O  change  accursed !  past  are  those  days : 
False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came. 

And,  for  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze. 
Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame. 

"What  sheeied  phantom  wanders  wild. 

Where  mountain  Eske  through  woodland  flows, 

Her  arms  enfold  a  shadowy  child  — 
Oh,  is  it  she,  the  pallid  rose? 

"  The  wildered  trav'ller  sees  her  glide. 
And  hears  her  feeble  voice  with  awe  — 

*  RevengCj'  she  cries,  '  on  Murray's  pride  ! 
And  wo  for  injured  Bothwellhaugh ! ' " 

He  ceased  —  and  cries  of  rage  and  grief  * 

Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band, 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  Chief, 
And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 


CADYOW    CASTLE.  533 

But  who,  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream,  and  rock, 
Rides  headlong,  with  resistless  speed, 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed; 

Whose  cheek  is  pale,  whose  eye-balls  glare, 
As  one,  some  visioned  sight  that  saw. 

Whose  hands  are  bloody,  loose  his  hair?  — 
— 'Tis  he!  'tis  he!  'tis  Bothwellhaugh ! 

From  gory  selle,  and  reeling  steed, 

Sprung  the  fierce  horseman  with  a  bound, 

And,  reeking  from  the  recent  deed. 
He  dashed  his  carbine  on  the  ground. 

Sternly  he  spoke  — "  'Tis  sweet  to  hear, 
In  good  greenwood,  the  bugle  blown; 

But  sweeter  to  Revenge's  ear. 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 

"Your  slaughtered  quarry  proudly  trode. 
At  dawning  morn,  o'er  dale  and  down. 

But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 

Through  old  Linlithgow's  crowded  town. 

"From  the  wild  Border's  humbled  side. 

In  haughty  triumph,  marched  he. 
While  Knox  relaxed  his  bigot  pride, 

And  smiled,  the  trait'rous  pomp  to  see. 

"But,  can  stern  Power,  with  all  his  vaunt, 
Or  Pomp,  with  all  her  courtly  glare. 

The  settled  heart  of  Vengeance  daunt. 
Or  change  the  purpose  of  Despair? 

45* 


534  CADYOW    CASTLE. 

"With  hackbut  bent,  my  secret  stand 
Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose. 

And  marked,  where,  mingling  in  his  band, 
Trooped  Scottish  pikes  and  English  bows. 

"  Dark  Morton,  girt  with  many  a  spear. 
Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van; 

And  clashed  their  broadswords  in  the  rear, 
The  wild  Macfarlanes^  plaided  clan. 

"  Glencairn  and  stout  Parkhead  were  nigh, 
Obsequious  at  their  Regent's  rein. 

And  haggard  Lindesay's  iron  eye, 
That  saw  fair  Mary  weep  in  vain. 

"Mid  pennoned  spears,  a  steely  grove. 
Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high; 

Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move, 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

"From  the  raised  visor^  shade,  his  eye. 
Dark-rolling,  glanced  the  ranks  along. 

And  his  steel  truncheon,  waved  on  high. 
Seemed  marshalling  the  iron  throng. 

"But  yet  his  saddened  hrow  confessed 
A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe ; 

Some  fiend  was  whisp'ring  in  his  breast, 
'  Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh ! ' 

"The  death-shot  parts  —  the  charger  springs 
Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar!  — 

And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings  — 
—  Rings  on  the  ground,  to  rise  no  more. 


CADYOW    CASTLE.  535 

"  What  joy  the  raptured  youth  can  feel, 
To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell. 

Or  he,  who  broaches  on  his  steel 
The  wolf,  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

"But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye, 
To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll; 

And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy. 
To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  souL 

"My  Marg'ret's  spectre  glided  near; 

With  pride  her  bleeding  victim  saw ; 
And  shrieked  in  his  death-deafened  ear, 

*  Remember  injured  Bothwellhaugh ! ' 

"  Then  speed  thee,  noble  Chatlerault ! 

Spread  to  the  wind  thy  bannered  tree ! 
Each  warrior  bend  his  Clydesdale  bow !  — 

Murray  is  fallen,  and  Scotland  free." 

Vaults  ev'ry  warrior  to  his  steed  ; 

Loud  bugles  join  their  wild  acclaim  — 
"  Murray  is  fallen,  and  Scotland  freed ! 

Couch,  Arran!  couch  thy  spear  of  flame!'* 

But,  see !  the  Minstrel  vision  fails  — 

The  glimm'ring  spears  are  seen  no  more  ; 

The  shouts  of  war  die  on  the  gales. 
Or  sink  in  Evan's  lonely  roar. 

For  the  loud  bugle,  pealing  high. 

The  blackbird  whistles  down  the  vale, 

And  sunk  in  ivied  ruins  lie 
The  bannered  towers  of  Evandale. 


536 


CADYOW    CASTLE. 


^ 


For  chiefs 
And  Veng 

Lo!  high-born 
Or  graceful 


inteVt  on  bloody  deed, 

shouting  o'er  the  slam, 
1  eauty  rules  the  steed, 
the  silken  rein. 


ear  le. 


g  tides 


And  long  may  Reace  and  Pleasure  own 
The  maids,  wHo  list,  the  Minstrel's  tale ; 

Nor  e'er  a  ruderlguest  be  known 
On  the  fair  balks  of  Evandale. 


3 


{ 537 )  ^m 


THE  GRAY  BROTHER. 

A    FRA.GMENT. 

The  Pope  he  was  saying  the  high,  high  mass, 

All  on  Saint  Peter's  day, 
With  the  power  to  him  given,  by  the  saints  in 
heaven, 

To  wash  men's  sins  away. 

The  Pope  he  was  saying  the  blessed  mass, 

And  the  people  kneeled  around ; 
And  from  each  man's  soul  his  sins  did  pass, 

As  he  kissed  the  holy  ground. 

And  all,  among  the  crowded  throng, 

Was  still,  both  limb  and  tongue, 
While  through  vaulted  roof,  and  aisles  aloof, 

The  holy  accents  rung. 

At  the  holiest  word  he  quivered  for  fear, 

And  faltered  in  the  sound  — 
And,  when  "he  would  the  chalice  rear, 

He  dropped  it  on  the  ground. 

"The  breath  of  one,  of  evil  deed, 

Pollutes  our  sacred  day ; 
He  has  no  portion  in  our  creed. 

No  part  in  what  I  say. 


886  THE     GRAT    BROTHER. 

"A  being,  whom  no  blessed  word 

To  ghostly  peace  can  bring ; 
A  wretch,  at  whose  approach  abhorred, 

Recoils  each  holy  thing. 

"  Up,  up,  unhappy !  haste,  arise  ! 

My  adjuration  fear! 
I  charge  thee  not  to  stop  my  voice. 

Nor  longer  tarry  here!" 

Amid  them  all  a  Pilgrim  kneeled. 

In  gown  of  sackcloth  gray : 
Far  journeying  from  his  native  field, 

He  first  saw  Rome  that  day. 

For  forty  days  and  nights  so  drear, 

I  ween,  he  had  not  spoke, 
And,  save  with  bread  and  water  clear, 

His  fast  he  ne'er  had  broke. 

Amid  the  penitential  flock. 

Seemed  none  more  bent  to  pray. 

But,  when  the  Holy  Father  spoke, 
He  rose,  and  went  his  way. 

Again  unto  his  native  land. 

His  weary  course  he  drew, 
To  Lothian's  fair  and  fertile  strand, 

And  Pentland's  mountains  blue. 

His  unblest  feet  his  native  seat 
Mid  Eske's  fair  woods,  regain ; 

Through  woods  more  fair  no  stream  more  sweet 
Rolls  to  the  eastern  main. 


THE     GRAY    BROTHER.  539 

And  Lords  to  meet  that  Pilgrim  came, 

And  vassals  bent  the  knee ; 
For  all  mid  Scotland's  chiefs  of  fame, 

Was  none  more  famed  than  he. 

And  boldly  for  his  country  still, 

In  battle  he  had  stood, 
Aye,  e'en  when,  on  the  banks  of  Till, 

Her  noblest  poured  their  blood. 

Sweet  are  thy  paths,  O,  passing  sweet! 

By  Eske's  fair  streams  that  run. 
O'er  airy  steep,  through  copsewood  deep, 

Impervious  to  the  sun. 

There  the  rapt  poet's  step  may  rove. 

And  yield  the  muse  the  day ; 
There  Beauty,  led  by  timid  Love, 

May  shun  the  tell-tale  ray ; 

From  that  fair  dome,  where  suit  is  paid 

By  blast  of  bugle  free. 
To  Auchendinny's  hazel  glade. 

And  haunted  Woodhouselee. 

Who  knows  not  Melville's  beechy  grove, 

And  Roslin's  rocky  glen, 
Dalkeith,  which  all  the  virtues  love. 

And  classic  Hawthornden? 

Yet  never  a  path,  from  day  to  day, 

The  Pilgrim's  footsteps  range. 
Save  but  the  solitary  way 

To  Burndale's  ruined  Grange. 


I  THE     GRAY    BROTHER. 

A  woful  place  was  that,  I  ween, 

As  sorrow  could  desire ; 
For,  nodding-  to  the  fall,  was  each  crumbling  wall, 

And  the  roof  was  scathed  with  fire. 

It  fell  upon  a  summer's  eve. 

While,  on  Carnethy's  head, 
The  last  faint  gleams  of  the  sun's  low  beams, 

Had  streaked  the  gray  with  red; 

And  the  convent  bell  did  vespers  tell, 

Newbottle's  oaks  among. 
And  mingled  with  the  solemn  knell 

Our  Lady's  evening  song: 

The  heavy  knell,  the  choir's  faint  swell, 

Came  slowly  down  the  wind, 
And  on  the  Pilgrim's  ear  they  fell, 

As  his  wonted  path  he  did  find. 

Deep  sunk  in  thought,  I  ween,  he  was, 

Nor  ever  raised  his  eye. 
Until  he  came  to  that  dreary  place. 

Which  did  all  in  ruins  lie. 

He  gazed  on  the  walls,  so  scathed  with  fire. 

With  many  a  bitter  groan  — 
And  there  was  aware  of  a  Gray  Friar, 

Resting  him  on  a  stone. 

"  Now,  Christ  thee  save !  "  said  the  Gray  Brother, 
"  Some  pilgrim  thou  seem'st  to  be ; " 

But  in  sore  amaze  did  Lord  Albert  gaze. 
Nor  answer  again  made  he. 


THE    GRAY    BROTHER.  541 

"O  come  ye  from  east,  or  come  ye  from  west, 

Or  bring  relics  from  over  the  sea. 
Or  come  ye  from  the  shrine  of  Saint  James  the  Divine, 

Or  Saint  John  of  Beverley  ?  " 

"I  come  not  from  the  shrine  of  Saint  James  the  Divine, 

Nor  bring  relics  from  over  the  sea; 
I  bring  but  a  curse  from  our  father,  the  Pope, 

Which  for  ever  will  cling  to  me." 

"Now,  woful  pilgrim,  say  not  so! 

But  kneel  thee  down  by  me. 
And  shrive  thee  so  clean  of  thy  deadly  sin, 

That  absolved  thou  may'st  be." 

"An^  who  art  thou,  thou  Gray  Brother, 

That  I  should  shrive  to  thee. 
When  he,  to  whom  are  given  the  keys  of  qarth  and 
heaven, 

Has  no  power  to  pardon  me  ?  " 

"O  I  am  sent  from  a  distant  clime, 

Five  thousand  miles  away, 
And  all  to  absolve  a  foul,  foul  crime,    • 

Done  Aere  'twixt  night  and  day." 

The  Pilgrim  kneeled  him  on  the  sand, 

And  thus  began  his  saye  — 
When  on  his  neck  an  ice-cold  hand 

Did  that  Gray  Brother  laye. 

46 


542) 


THOMAS  THE   RHYMER. 

IN  THREE   PARTS. 

PART  FIRST. 

ANCIENT. 

True  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank: 
A  ferlie  he  spied  wi'  his  e'e; 

And  there  he  saw  a  ladye  bright, 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  Tree. 


Her  skirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk, 
Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fyne; 

At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse's  mane, 
Hang  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine. 


True  Thomas  he  pulled  aff  his  cap. 
And  louted  low  down  to  his  knee,  — 

"All  hail,  thou  mighty  queen  of  heaven! 
For  thy  peer  on  earth  I  never  did  see." 


"  O  no,  O  no,  Thomas,"  she  said ; 

"That  name  does  not  belang  to  me; 
I  am  but  the  queen  of  fair  Elfland, 

That  am  hither  come  to  visit  thee. 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER.  543 

"Harp  and  carp,  Thomas,"  she  said; 

"  Harp  and  carp  along  with  me ; 
And  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips. 

Sure  of  your  bodie  I  will  be." 

"Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  wo, 
That  weird  shall  never  danton  me." 

Syne  he  has  kissed  her  rosy  lips. 
All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree. 

"Now  ye  maun  go  wi'  me,"  she  said; 

"True  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi'  me 
And  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years. 

Through  weal  or  wo  as  may  chance  to  be," 

She  mounted  on  her  milk-white  steed; 

She's  ta'en  true  Thomas  up  behind; 
And  aye,  whene'er  her  bridle  rung, 

The  steed  flew  swifter  than  the  wind. 

O  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on; 

The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind; 
Until  they  reached  a  desart  wide,    , 

And  living  land  was  left  behind. 

"Light  down,  light  down,  now,  true  Thomas, 
And  lean  your  head  upon  my  knee ; 

Abide,  and  rest  a  little  space, 

And  I  will  show  you  ferlies  three. 

"  O  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road. 

So  thick  beset  with  thorns  and  briers?— 

That  is  the  path  of  righteousness. 
Though  after  it  but  few  inquires. 


m 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER. 


"  And  see  not  ye  that  braid,  braid  road, 

That  lies  across  that  lily  leven  ?  — 
That  is  the  path  of  wickedness, 

Though  some  call  it  the  road  to  heaven. 

"And  see  not  ye  that  bonny  road, 
That  winds  about  the  fernie  brae  ?  — 

That  is  the  road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  thou  and  I  this  night  maun  gae. 

"But,  Thomas,  ye  maun  hold  your  tongue, 

Whatever  ye  may  hear  or  see ; 
For,  if  you  speak  word  in  Elflyn  land,  ^ 

Ye'll  ne'er  get  back  to  your  ain  countrie." 

0  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on. 

And  they  waded  through  rivers  aboon  the  knee. 
And  they  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 
But  they  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

It  was  mirk,  mirk  night,  and  there  was  nae  starn  light, 
And  they  waded  through  red  blude  to  the  knee; 

For  a'  the  blude  that's  shed  on  earth, 
Rins  through  the  springs  o'  that  countrie. 

Syne  they  came  on  to  a  garden  green. 
And  she  pu'd  an  apple  frae  a  tree  — 

"  Take  this  for  thy  wages,  true  Thomas  ; 
It  will  give  thee  the  tongue  that  can  never  lie.** 

"  My  tongue  is  mine  ain,"  true  Thomas  said ; 
"  A  gudely  gift  ye  wad  gie  to  me ! 

1  neither  dought  to  buy  nor  sell, 
At  fair  or  tryst,  where  I  may  be. 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER.  545 

"  I  dought  neither  speak  to  prince  or  peer, 
Nor  ask  of  grace  from  fair  ladye." 

"  Now  hold  thy  peace ! "  the  ladye  said, 
"  For,  as  I  say,  so  must  it  be." 

He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth, 
And  a  pair  of  shoes  of  velvet  green ; 

And,  till  seven  years  were  gane  and  past, 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 


PART  SECOND. 

ALTERED    FROM    ANCIENT    PROPHECIES 

When  seven  years  were  come  and  gane. 

The  sun  blinked  fair  on  pool  and  stream 
And  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank, 

Like  one  awakened  from  a  dream. 

He  heard  the  trampling  of  a  steed. 
He  saw  the  flash  of  armor  flee. 

And  he  beheld  a  gallant  knight, 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildou  Tree. 

He  was  a  stalwart  knight,  and  strong; 

Of  giant  make  he  'peared  to  be : 
He  stirred  his  horse  as  he  were  wode, 

Wi'  gilded  spurs,  of  faushion  free. 


ffid  THOMAS    THE    RHYJIER. 

Says  —  "  Well  met,  well  met,  true  Thomas  ! 

Some  uncouth  ferlies  sliew  to  me." 
Says  —  "Christ  thee  save,  Corspatrick  brave 

Thrice  welcome,  good  Dunbar,  to  me ! 

"Light  down,  light  down,  Corspatrick  brave, 
And  I  will  shew  tliee  curses  three, 

Shall  gair  fair  Scotland  greet  and  grane, 
And  change  the  green  to  the  black  livery. 

"  A  storm  shall  roar,  this  very  hour. 
From  Rosse's  Hills  to  Solway  sea," 

"  Ye  lied,  ye  lied,  ye  warlock  hoar ! 

For  the  sun  shines  sweet  on  fauld  and  lea." 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  earlie's  head ; 

He  shewed  him  a  rock,  beside  the  sea, 
Where  a  king  lay  stiff,  benetith  his  steed, 

And  steel-dight  nobles  wiped  their  e'e. 

"The  neist  curse  lights  on  Branxton  Hills: 
By  Flodden's  high  and  heathery  side, 

Shall  wave  a  banner,  red  as  blude, 

And  chieflams  throng  wi'  meikle  pride. 

"A  Scottish  king  shall  come  full  keen; 

The  ruddy  lion  beareth  he: 
A  feathered  arrow  sharp,  I  Aveen, 

Shall  make  him  wink  and  warre  to  see. 

"When  he  is  bloody,  and  all  to  bledde. 
Thus  to  his  men  he  still  shall  say  — 

*For  God's  sake,  turn  ye  back  again. 
And  give  yon  southern  folk  a  fray ! 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER. 


547 


Why  should  I  lose,  the  right  is  mine? 
My  doom  is  not  to  die  this  day.' 

"Yet  turn  ye  to  the  eastern  hand, 

And  wo  and  wonder  ye  sail  see; 
How  forty  thousand  spearmen  stand, 

Where  yon  rank  river  meets  the  sea. 

"There  shall  the  lion  lose  the  gylte, 
And  the  libbards  bear  it  clean  away; 

At  Pinkyn  Cleuch  there  shall  be  spilt 
Much  gentil  blude^  that  day." 

"Enough,  enough,  of  curse  and  ban; 

Some  blessing  shew  thou  now  to  me. 
Or,  by  the  faith  o'  my  bodie,"  Corspatrick  said, 

"  Ye  shall  rue  the  day  ye  e'er  saw  me ! " 

"The  first  of  blessings  I  shall  thee  shew, 
Is  by  a  burn,  that's  called  of  bread; 

Where  Saxon  men  shall  tine  the  bow, 
And  find  their  arrows  lack  the  head. 

"Beside  that  brigg,  out-ower  that  burn. 

Where  the  water  bickereth  bright  and  sheen, 

Shall  many  a  falling  courser  spurn, 
And  knights  shall  die  in  battle  keen. 

"Beside  a  headless  cross  of  stone. 

The  libbards  there  shall  lose  the  gree: 

The  raven  shall  come,  the  erne  shall  go, 
And  drink  the  Saxon  blood  sae  free. 

The  cross  of  stone  they  shall  not  know, 
So  thick  the  corses  there  shall  be." 


848  THOMAS    THE    RHYMER. 

"But  tell  me  now,"  said  brave  Dunbar, 
"  True  Thomas,  tell  now  unto  me. 

What  man  shall  rule  the  isle  Britain, 

Ev'n  from  the  north  to  the  southern  sea?** 

"  A  French  queen  shall  bear  the  son, 
Shall  rule  all  Britain  to  the  sea: 
^   He  of  the  Bruce's  blude  shall  come, 
As  near  as  in  the  ninth  degree. 

"  The  waters  worship  shall  his  race  ; 

Likewise  the  waves  of  the  farthest  sea; 
For  they  shall  ride  ower  ocean  wide. 

With  hempen  bridles,  and  horse  of  tree." 


PART  THIRD. 

MODERN. 

When  seven  years  more  had  come  and  gone, 
Was  war  through  Scotland  spread, 

And  Ruberslaw  showed  high  Dunyon 
His  beacon  blazing  red. 

Then  all  by  bonny  Coldingknow, 
Pitched  palliouns  took  their  room, 

And  crested  helms,  and  spears  a  rpwe. 
Glanced  gayly  through  the  broom. 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER.  649 

The  Leader,  rolling  to  the  Tweed, 

Resounds  the  ensenzie ; 
They  roused  the  deer  from  Caddenhead, 

To  distant  Torwoodlee. 

The  feast  was  spread  in  Ercildoune, 
In  Learmont's  high  and  ancient  hall; 

And  there  were  knights  of  great  renown, 
And  ladies,  laced  in  pall. 

Nor  lacked  they,  while  they  sat  at  dine, 
The  music,  nor  the  tale,  • 

Nor  goblets  of  the  blood-red  wine, 
Nor  mantling  quaighs  of  ale. 

True  Thomas  rose,  with  harp  in  hand, 

When  as  the  feast  was  done ; 
(In  minstrel  strife,  in  Fairy  Land, 

The  elfin  harp  he  won.) 

Hushed  were  the  throng,  both  limb  and  tongue, 

And  harpers  for  envy  pale ; 

And  armed  lords  leaned  on  their  swords, 

And  hearkened  to  the  tale. 

t 

In  numbers  high,  the  witching  tale 

The  prophet  poured  along ; 
No  after  bard  might  e'er  avail 

Those  numbers  to  prolong. 

Yet  fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 

Float  down  the  tide  of  years. 
As,  buoyant  on  the  stormy  main, 

A  parted  wreck  appears. 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER. 

He  sung  King  Arthur's  table  round: 

The  warrior  of  the  lake  ; 
How  courteous  Gawaine  met  the  wound, 

And  bled  for  ladies'  sake. 

But  chief,  in  gentle  Tristrem's  praise, 

The  notes  melodious  swell ; 
Was  none  excelled  in  Arthur's  days, 

The  knight  of  Lionelle. 

For  Marke,  his  cowardly  uncle's  right, 

A  venomed  wound  he  bore; 
When  fierce  Morholde  he  slew  in  fight. 

Upon  the  Irish  shore. 

No  art  the  poison  might  withstand ; 

No  med'cine  could  be  found. 
Till  lovely  Isolde's  lily  hand 

Had  probed  the  rankling  wound. 

With  gentle  hand  and  soothing  tongue. 

She  bore  the  leech's  part; 
And,  while  she  o'er  his  sick  bed  hung, 

He  paid  her  with  his  heart 

O  fatal  was  the  gift,  I  ween! 

For,  doomed  in  evil  tide, 
The  maid  must  be  rude  Cornwall's  queen, 

His  cowardly  uncle's  bride. 

Their  loves,  their  woes,  the  gifted  bard 

In  fairy  tissue  wove ; 
Where  lords,  and  knights,  and  ladies  bright, 

In  gay  confusion  strove. 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER. 


551 


The  Garde  Joyesse,  amid  the  tale, 
High  reared  its  glittering"  head ; 

And  Avalon's  enchanted  vale 
In  all  its  wonders  spread. 

Brengwain  was  there,  and  Segramore, 
And  field-born  Merlin's  graraayre ; 

Of  that  famed  wizard's  mighty  lore, 
O  who  could  sing  but  he  ? 

Through  many  a  maze  the  winning  song 

In  changeful  passion  led, 
Till  bent  at  length  the  list'ning  throng 

O'er  Tristrem's  dying  bed. 

His  ancient  wounds  their  scars  expand; 

With  agony  his  heart  is  wrung : 
O  where  is  Isolde's  lily  hand, 

And  where  her  soothing  tongue  ? 

She  comes,  she  comes !  like  flash  of  flame 

Can  lovers'  footsteps  fly: 
She  comes,  she  comes !  she  only  came 

To  see  her  Tristrem  die. 

She  saw  him  die :  her  latest  sigh 
Joined  in  a  kiss  his  parting  breath: 

The  gentlest  pair  that  Britain  bare. 
United  are  in  death. 

There  paused  the  harp;  its  ling'ring  sound 

Died  slowly  on  the  ear ; 
The  silent  guests  still  bent  around, 

For  still  they  seemed  to  hear. 


5®2  THOMAS    THE    RHYMER. 

Then  wo  broke  forth  in  murmurs  weak, 
Nor  ladies  heaved  alone  the  sigh; 

But,  half  ashamed,  the  rugged  cheek 
Did  many  a  gauntlet  dry. 

On  Leader's  stream,  and  Learmont's  tower, 
The  mists  of  evening  close; 

In  camp,  in  castle,  or  in  bower, 
Each  warrior  sought  repose. 

Lord  Douglas,  in  his  lofty  tent, 
Dreamed  o'er  the  woful  tale ; 

When  footsteps  light,  across  the  bent, 
The  warrior's  ears  assail. 

He  starts,  he  wakes :  —  "  What,  Richard,  ho! 

Arise,  my  page,  arise! 
What  vent'rous  wight,  at  dead  of  night, 

Dare  step  where  Douglas  lies ! " 

Then  forth  they  rushed:  by  Leader's  tide, 
A  selcouth  sight  they  see  — 

A  hart  and  hind  pace  side  by  side, 
As  white  as  snow  on  Fairnalie. 

Beneath  the  moon,  with  gesture  proud, 
They  stately  move  and  slow; 

Nor  scare  they  at  the  gath'ring  crowd, 
{  Who  marvel  as  they  go. 

! 

To  I-iearmont's  tower  a  message  sped, 
\\  As  fast  as  page  might  run; 

I!  And  Thomas  started  from  his  bed, 

j  And  soon  his  clothes  did  on. 

! 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER.  553 

First  he  woxe  pale,  and  then  woxe  red; 

Never  a  word  he  spake  but  three ;  — 
"My  sand  is  run;  my  thread  is  spun; 

This  sign  regardeth  me."  ' 

The  Elfin  harp  his  neck  around, 

In  minstrel  guise,  he  hung; 
And  on  the  wind,  in  doleful  sound, 

Its  dying  accents  rung. 

Then  forth  he  went;  yet  turned  him  oft 

To  view  his  ancient  hall ; 
On  the  gray  tower,  in  lustre  soft, 

The  autumn  moonbeams  fall. 

And  Leader's  waves,  like  silver  sheen, 

Danced  shimm'ring  in  the  ray: 
In  deepening  mass,  at  distance  seen. 

Broad  Soltra's  mountains  lay. 

"Farewell,  my  father's  ancient  tower! 

A  long  farewell,"  said  he : 
"The  scene  of  pleasure,  pomp,  or  power, 

Thou  never  more  shalt  be. 

"To  Learmont's  name  no  foot  of  earth 

Shall  here  again  belong. 
And  on  thy  hospitable  hearth 


The  hare  shall  leave  her  young.  i 


"Adieu!  Adieu!"  again  he  cried, 
And  as  he  turned  him  roun'  — 

"Farewell  to  Leader's  silver  tide! 
Farewell  to  Ercildoune  !  " 


THOMAS    THE    RHYMER. 

The  hart  and  hind  approached  the  place, 

As  ling'ring  yet  he  stood; 
And  there,  before  Lord  Douglas'  face. 

With  them  he  crossed  the  flood. 

Lord  Douglas  leaped  on  his  berry-brown  steed, 
And  spurred  him  the  Leader  o'er; 

But,  though  he  rode  with  lightning  speed. 
He  never  saw  them  more. 

Some  said  to  hill,  and  some  to  glen. 
Their  wondrous  course  had  been ; 

But  ne'er  in  haunts  of  living  men 
Again  was  Thomas  seen. 


(555) 


THE  FIRE-KING. 

Bold  knights  and  fair  dames,  to  my  harp  give  an  ear, 
Of  love,  and  of  war,  and  of  wonder  to  hear ; 
And  you  haply  may  sigh,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee, 
At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 

O  see  you  that  castle,  so  strong  and  so  high  ? 
And  see  you  that  lady,  the  tear  in  her  eye  ? 
And  see  you  that  palmer,  from  Palestine's  land. 
The  shell  on  his  hat,  and  the  staff  in  his  hand  ?  — 

"Now  palmer,  gray  palmer,  O  tell  unto  me, 
What  news  bring  you  home  from  the  Holy  Countrie  ? 
And  how  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's  strand  ? 
And  how  fare  our  nobles,  the  flower  of  the  land  ?  " 

"  O  well  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's  wave, 

For  Gilead,  and  Nablous,  and  Ramah  we  have ; 

And  well  fare  our  nobles  by  Mount  Lebanon, 

For  the  Heathen  have  lost,  and  the  Christians  have  won." 

A  fair  chain  of  gold  'mid  her  ringlets  there  hung ; 
O'er  the  palmer's  gray  locks  the  fair  chain  has  she  flung 
"  O  palmer,  gray  palmer,  this  chain  be  thy  fee. 
For  the  news  thou  hast  brought  from  the  Holy  Countrie. 

"  O  palmer,  good  palmer,  by  Galilee's  wave, 
O  saw  ye  Count  Albert,  the  gentle  and  brave  ?         [on, 
When  the  Crescent  went  back,  and  the  Red-cross  rushed 
O  saw  ye  him  foremost  on  Mount  Lebanon  ?  "  — 


^6  HE    FIRE-KING. 

"  O  lady,  fair  lady,  the  tree  green  it  grows  ; 

O  lady,  fair  lady,  the  stream  pure  it  flows  ; 

Your  castle  stands  strong,  and  your  hopes  soar  on  high, 

But  lady,  fair  lady,  all  blossoms  to  die. 

"  The  green  boughs  they  wither,  the  thunderbolt  falls, 
It  leaves  of  your  castle  but  levin-scorched  walls ; 
The  pure  stream  runs  muddy  ;  the  gay  hope  is  gone ; 
Count  Albert  is  pris'ner  on  Mount  Lebanon."  — 

O  she's  ta'en  a  horse,  should  be  fleet  at  her  speed ; 
And  she's  ta'en  a  sword,  should  be  sharp  at  her  need ; 
And  she  has  ta'en  shipping  for  Palestine's  land, 
To  ransom  Count  Albert  from  Soldanrie's  hand. 

Small  thought  had  Count  Albert  on  fair  Rosalie, 
Small  thought  on  his  faith,  on  his  knighthood,  had  he ; 
A  heathenish  damsel  his  light  heart  had  won. 
The  Soldan's  fair  daughter  on  Mount  Lebanon. 

"  O  Christian,  brave  Christian,  my  love  would'st  thou  be, 
Three  things  must  thou  do  ere  I  hearken  to  thee  ; 
Our  laws  and  our  worship  on  thee  shalt  thou  take ; 
And  this  thou  shalt  first  do  for  Zulema's  sake. 

"  And,  next,  in  the  cavern,  where  burns  evermore 
The  mystical  flame  AVhich  the  Curdman's  adore. 
Alone,  and  in  silence,  three  nights  shalt  thou  wake ; 
And  this  thou  shalt  next  do  for  Zulema's  sake. 

"  And,  last,  thou  shalt  aid  us  with  council  and  hand, 
To  drive  the  Frank  robber  from  Palestine's  land  ; 
For  my  lord  and  my  love  then  Count  Albert  I'll  take, 
When  all  this  is  accomplished  for  Zulema's  sake." 


THE    FIRE-KING.  557 

He  has  thrown  by  his  helmet  and  cross-handled  sword, 
Renouncing  his  knighthood,  denying  his  Lord  ; 
He  has  ta'en  the  green  caftan,  and  turban  put  on, 
For  the  love  of  the  maiden  of  fair  Lebanon. 

And  in  the  dread  cavern,  deep  deep  under  ground. 
Which  fifty  steel  gates  and  steel  portals  surround, 
He  has  watched  until  daybreak,  but  sight  saw  he  none, 
Save  the  flame  burning  bright  on  its  altar  of  stone. 

Amazed  was  the  princess,  the  soldan  amazed, 
Sore  murmured  the  priests  as  on  Albert  they  gazed ; 
They  searched  all  his  garments,  and,  under  his  weeds. 
They  found,  and  took  from  him,  his  rosary  beads. 

Again  in  the  cavern,  deep  deep  under  ground,    [round  ; 
He  watched  the  lone  night,  while  the  winds  whistled 
Far  off  was  their  murmur,  it  came  not  more  nigh, 
The  flame  burned  unmoved,  and  naught  else  did  he  spy. 

Loud  murmured  the  priests,  and  amazed  was  the  king, 
While  many  dark  spells  of  their  witchcraft  they  sing : 
They  searched  Albert's  body,  and,  lo !  on  his  breast 
Was  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  by  his  father  impressed. 

The  priests  they  erase  it  with  care  and  with  pain, 
And  the  recreant  returned  to  the  cavern  again ; 
But,  as  he  descended,  a  whisper  there  fell !  — 
It  was  his  good  angel,  who  bade  him  farewell ! 

High  bristled  his  hair,  his  heart  fluttered  and  beat, 
And  he  turned  him  five  steps,  half  resolved  to  retreat ; 
But  his  heart  it  was  hardened,  his  purpose  was  gone, 
When  he  thought  on  the  maiden  of  fair  Lebanon. 

A7* 


5SB  THE    riRE-KING. 

Scarce  passed  he  the  archway,  the  threshold  scarce  trod, 
When  the  winds  from  the  four  points  of  heaven  were 

abroad ; 
They  made  each  steel  portal  to  rattle  and  ring, 
And,  borne  on  the  blast,  came  the  dread  Fire-King. 

Full  sore  rocked  the  cavern,  whene'er  he  drew  nigh, 
The  fire  on  the  altar  blazed  bick'ring  and  high ; 
In  volcanic  explosions  the  mountains  proclaim 
The  dreadful  approach  of  the  Monarch  of  Flame-. 

Unmeasured  in  height,  and  undistinguished  in  form, 
His  breath  it  was  lightning,  his  voice  it  was  storm ; 
I  ween  the  stout  heart  of  Count  Albert  was  tame, 
When  he  saw  in  his  terrors  the  Monarch  of  Flame. 

In  his  hand  a  broad  falchion  blue-glimmered  through 

smoke, 
And  Mount  Lebanon  shook,  as  the  Monarch  he  spoke: 
"  With  this  brand  shalt  thou  conquer,  thus  long,  and 

no  more, 
Till  thou  bend  to  the  Cross,  and  the  Virgin  adore." 

The  cloud-shrouded  arm  gives  the  weapon ;  and,  see, 
The  recreant  receives  the  charmed  gift  on  his  knee : 
The  thunders  growl  distant,  and  faint  gleam  the  fires, 
As,  borne  on  his  whirlwind,  the  Phantom  retires. 

Count  Albert  has  armed  him  the  Paynim  among, 
Though  his  heart  it  was  false,  yet  his  arm  it  was 

strong ; 
And  the  Red-cross   waxed   faint,  and  the  Crescent 

came  on. 
From  the  day  he  commanded  on  Mount  Lebanon. 


THE    FIRE-KING.  559 

From  Lebanon's  forests  to  Galilee's  wave, 

The  sands  of  Samaar  drank  the  blood  of  the  brave  ; 

Till  the  Knights  of  the  Temple,  and  Knights  of  Saint 

John, 
With  Salem's  King  Baldwin  against  him  came  on. 

The  war-cymbals  clattered,  the  trumpets  replied, 
The  lances  were  couched,  and  they  closed  on  each 

side; 
And  horsemen  and  horses  Count  Albert  o'erthrew, 
Till  he  pierced  the  thick  tumult  King  Baldwin  unto. 

Against  the  charmed  blade  which  Count  Albert  did 

wield. 
The  fence  had  been  vain  of  the   King's   Red-cross 

shield ; 
But  a  Page  thrust  him  forward  the  monarch  before, 
And  cleft  the  proud  turban  the  renegade  wore. 

So  fell  was  the  dint,  that  Count  Albert  stooped  low- 
Before  the  crossed  shield  to  his  steel  saddle-bow ; 
And  scarce  had  he  bent  to  the  Red-Cross  his  head,  — 
" Bonne  grace,  notre  Dame"  he  unwittingly  said. 

Sore  sighed  the   charmed  sword,  for  its  vui;ue  was 

o'er. 
It  sprung  from  his  grasp,  and  was  never  seen  more  ; 
But  true  men  have  said,  that  the  lightning's  red  wing 
Did  waft  back  the  brand  to  the  dread  Fire-King. 

He  clenched  his  set  teeth,  and  his  gauntletted  hand ; 
He  stretched,  with  one  buffet,  that  Page  on  the  strand ; 
As  back  from  the  stripling  the  broken  casque  rolled, 
You  might  see  the  blue  eyes,  and  the  ringlets  of  gold. 


I 


560  THE    FIRE-KING. 

Short  time  had  Count  Albert  in  horror  to  stare 

On  those  death-swimming  eye-balls,  and  blood-clotted 

hair ; 
For  down  came  the  Templars,  like  Cedron  in  flood, 
And  dyed  their  long  lances  in  Saracen  blood. 

The  Saracens,  Curdmans,  and  Ishmaelites  yield 
To  the  scallop,  the  saltier,  and  crossletted  shield ; 
And  the  eagles  were  gorged  with  the  infidel  dead, 
From  Bethsaida's  fountains  to  Naphtali's  head. 

The  battle  is  over  on  Bethsaida's  plain.  — 
Oh,  who  is  yon  Paynim  lies  stretched  'mid  the  slain  ? 
And  who  is  yon  Page  lying  cold  at  his  knee  ?  — 
Oh,  who  but  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 

The  Lady  was  buried  in  Salem's  blessed  bound, 
The  Count  he  was  left  to  the  vulture  and  hound : 
Her  soul  to  high  mercy  Our  Lady  did  bring ; 
His  went  on  the  blast  to  the  dread  Fire-King. 

Yet  many  a  minstrel,  in  harping,  can  tell, 
How  the  Red  Cross  it  conquered,  the  Crescent  it  fell; 
And  lords  and  gay  ladies  have  sighed,  'mid  their  glee, 
At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 


(561 


FREDERICK   AND  ALICE. 

Fred'rick  leaves  the  land  of  France, 
Homeward  hastes  his  steps  to  measure; 

Careless  casts  the  parting  glance 
On  the  scene  of  former  pleasure ; 

Joying  in  his  prancing  steed, 
Keen  to  prove  his  untried  blade, 

Hope's  gay  dreams  the  soldier  lead 
Over  mountain,  moor,  and  glade. 

Helpless,  ruined,  left  forlorn. 

Lovely  Alice  wept  alone ; 
Mourned  o'er  love's  fond  contract  torn, 

Hope,  and  peace,  and  honor  flown. 

Mark  her  breast's  convulsive  throbs! 

See,  the  tear  of  anguish  flows !  — 
Mingling  soon  with  bursting  sobs. 

Loud  the  laugh  of  frenzy  rose. 

Wild  she  cursed,  and  wild  she  prayed ; 

Seven  long  days  and  nights  are  o'er: 
Death  in  pity  brought  his  aid. 

As  the  village  bell  struck  four. 

Far  from  her,  and  far  from  France, 
Faithless  Fred'rick  onward  rides: 

Marking,  blithe,  the  morning's  glance 
Mantling  o'er  the  mountain's  sides. 


im 


FREDERICK   AND    ALICE. 

Heard  ye  not  the  boding  sound, 
As  the  tongue  of  yonder  tower 

Slowly,  to  the  hills  around, 
Told  the  fourth,  the  fated  hour? 

Starts  the  steed,  and  snuffs  the  air, 
Yet  no  cause  of  dread  appears  ; 

(Bristles  high  the  rider's  hair. 

Struck  with  strange  mysterious  fears. 

Desp'rate,  as  his  terrors  rise, 
In  the  steed  the  spur  he  hides; 

From  himself  in  vain  he  flies; 
Anxious,  restless,  on  he  rides. 

Seven  long  days,  and  seven  long  nights, 
Wild  he  wandered,  wo  the  while ! 

Ceaseless  care,  and  causeless  fright. 
Urge  his  footsteps  many  a  mile. 

Dark  the  seventh  sad  night  descends; 

Rivers  swell,  and  rain-streams  pour; 
While  the  deaf'ning  thunder  lends 

All  the  terrors  of  its  roar. 

Weary,  wet,  and  spent  with  toil. 

Where  his  head  shall  Fred'rick  hide.? 

Where,  but  in  yon  ruined  aisle. 
By  the  lightning's  flash  descried? 

To  the  portal,  dank  and  low. 

Fast  his  steed  the  wand'rer  bound; 

Down  a  ruined  staircase  slow. 
Next  his  darkling  way  he  wound. 


FREDERICK    AND    ALICE. 

Long  drear  vaults  before  him  lie ; 

Glimm'ring  lights  are  seen  to  glide!  — 
"Blessed  Mary,  hear  my  cry! 

Deign  a  sinner's  steps  to  guide!"  — 

Often  lost  their  quivering  beam, 
Still  the  lights  move  slow  before. 

Till  they  rest  their  ghastly  gleam 
Right  against  an  iron  door. 

Thund'ring  voices  from  within. 

Mixed  with  peals  of  laughter,  rose ; 

As  they  fell,  a  solemn  strain 
Lent  its  wild  and  wondrous  close! 

'Midst  the  din,  he  seemed  to  hear 

Voice  of  friends,  by  death  removed ;  — 

Well  he  knew  that  solemn  air, 
'Twas  the  lay  that  Alice  loved. — 

Hark !  for  now  a  solemn  knell 

Four  times  on  the  still  night  broke ; 

Four  times,  at  its  deadened  swell. 
Echoes  from  the  ruins  spoke. 

As  the  lengthened  clangors  die. 

Slowly  opes  the  iron  door! 
Straight  a  banquet  met  his  eye. 

But  a  funeral's  form  it  wore ! 

Coffins  for  the  seats  extend ; 

All  with  black  the  board  was  spread; 
Girt  by  parent,  brother,  friend, 

Long  since  numbered  with  the  dead! 


564  FREDERICK    AND    ALICE. 

Alice,  in  her  grave-clothes  bound, 
Ghastly  smiling,  points  a  seat; 

All  arose,  with  thund'ring  sound ; 
All  th'  expected  stranger  greet 

High  their  meagre  arms  they  wave, 
Wild  their  notes  of  welcome  swell ;  • 

Welcome,  traitor,  to  the  grave ! 
Perjured,  bid  the  light  farewell!" 


(565 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN. 

The  Wildgrave  winds  his  bugle-horn, 
To  horse,  to  horse!  halloo,  halloo! 

His  fiery  courser  snufis  the  morn, 

And  thronging  serfs  their  lord  pursue. 

The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed, 

Dash  through  the  bush,  the  brier,  the  brake; 

While  answ'ring  hound,  and  horn,  and  steed, 
The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 

The  beams  of  God's  own  hallowed  day 
Had  painted  yonder  spire  with  gold. 

And,  calling  sinful  man  to  pray. 
Loud,  long,  and  deep,  the  bell  had  tolled: 

But  still  the  Wildgrave  onward  rides ; 

Halloo,  halloo!  and,  hark  again! 
When,  spurring  from  opposing  sides, 

Two  Stranger  Horsemen  join  the  train. 

Who  was  each  stranger,  left  and  right, 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell; 

The  right-hand  steed  was  silver  white. 
The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  right-hand  horseman,  young  and  fair, 
His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May; 

The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare. 
Shot  midnight  lightning's  lurid  ray. 


566  THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN. 

He  waved  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high, 
Cried,  "  Welcome,  welcome,  noble  lord ! 

What  sport  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky. 
To  match  the  princely  chase,  afford?" 

"Cease  thy  loud  bugle's  clanging  knell. 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  with  silver  voice; 

"And  for  devotion's  choral  swell, 
Exchange  the  rude  unhallowed  noise. 

"To-day,  th'  ill-omened  chase  forbear, 
Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane; 

To-day  the  Warning  Spirit  hear. 

To-morrow  thou  may'st  mourn  in  vain." 

"Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along, 
The  Sable  Hunter  hoarse  replies; 

"To  mutt'ring  monks  leave  matin-song, 
And  bells,  and  books,  and  mysteries." 

The  Wildgrave  spurred  his  ardent  steed,         ^ 
And,  launching  forward  with  a  bound, 

"Who,  for  thy  drowsy  priestlike  rede. 
Would  leave  the  jovial  horn  and  hound? 

"  Hence,  if  our  manly  sport  offend ! 

With  pious  fools  go  chant  and  pray:  — 
Well  hast  thou  spoke,  my  dark-browed  friend; 

Halloo,  halloo!  and,  hark  away!" 

The  Wildgrave  spurred  his  courser  light, 
O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and  hUl ; 

And  on  the  left,  and  on  the  right, 

Each  Stranger  Horseman  followed  still. 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN.  587 

Up  springs,  from  yonder  tangled  thorn, 
A  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow; 

And  louder  rang  the  Wildgrave's  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla  ho  ! " 

A  heedless  wretch  has  crossed  the  way ; 

He  gasps,  the  thundering  hoofs  below;  — 
But  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may, 

Still,  "  Forward,  forward ! "  on  they  go. 

See,  where  yon  simple  fences  meet, 

A  field  with  autumn's  blessings  crowned; 

See,  prostrate  at  the  Wildgrave's  feet, 
A  husbandman,  with  toil  embrowned: 

"  O  mercy,  mercy,  noble  lord ! 

Spare  the  poor's  pittance,"  was  his  cry, 
"  Earned  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have  poured, 

In  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July."  — 

Earnest  the  right-hand  Stranger  pleads. 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 

Th'  impetuous  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

"Away,  thou  hound!  so  basely  born. 

Or  dread  the  scourge's  echoing  blow!"  — 

Then  loudly  rung  his  bugle-horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla,  ho ! " 

So  said,  so  done :  —  A  single  bound 
Clears  the  poor  laborer's  humble  pale; 

Wild  follows  man,  and  horse,  and  hound, 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN. 

And  man,  and  horse,  and  hound,  and  horn, 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along; 

While,  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn, 

Fell  Famine  marks  the  madd'ning  throng. 

Again  up-roused,  the  tim'rous  prey- 
Scours  moss,  and  moor,  and  holt,  and  hill ; 

Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay. 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appeared ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd, 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

O'er  moss,  and  moor,  and  holt,  and  hill, 
His  track  the  steady  bloodhounds  trace ; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  unwearied  still. 
The  furious  Earl  pursues  the  chase. 

Full  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall;  — 
"O  spare,  thou  noble  Baron,  spare 

These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all ; 

These  flocks,  an  orphan's  fleecy  care." 

Earnest  the  right-hand  Stranger  pleads. 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey 

The  Earl  nor  prayer  nor  pity  heeds, 
But  furious  keeps  the  onward  way. 

—  "Unmannered  dog!     To  stop  my  sport 
Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine, 

Though  human  spirits,  of  thy  sort. 
Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine ! "  — 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN.  569 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle-horn, 

"Hark,  forward,  forward!  holla,  ho!" 

And  through  the  herd,  in  ruthless  scorn, 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 

In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall; 

Down  sinks  their  mangled  herdsman  near; 
The  murd'rous  cries  the  stag  appal, — 

Again  he  starts,  new-nerved  by  fear. 

With  blood  besmeared,  and  white  with  foam, 
While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour, 

He  seeks,  amid  the  forest's  gloom. 
The  humble  hermit's  hallowed  bower. 

But  man,  and  horse,  and  horn,  and  hound, 

Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go ; 
The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 

With,  "Hark  away!  and,  holla,  ho!" 

All  mild,  amid  the  route  profane. 
The  holy  hermit  poured  his  prayer;  — 

"Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to  stain; 
Revere  his  altar,  and  forbear ! 

"The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead. 
Which,  wronged  by  cruelty  or  pride, 

Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head :  — 
Be  warned  at  length,  and  turn  aside." 

Still  the  Fair  Horseman  anxious  pleads; 

The  Black,  wild  whooping,  points  the  prey :  — 
Alas !  the  Earl  no  warning  heeds. 

But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 

48* 


SffO  THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN. 

"Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong, 
Thy  altar,  and  its  rites,  I  spurn; 

Not  sainted  martyrs'  sacred  song, 

Not  God  himself,  shall  make  me  turn!** 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 
"Hark" forward,  forward!  holla,  ho!"  — 

But  off,  on  whirlwind's  pinions  borne. 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit,  go. 

And  horse,  and  man,  and  horn,  and  hound, 
And  clamor  of  the  chase,  was  gone; 

For  hoofs,  and  howls,  and  bugle  sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reigned  alone. 

Wild  gazed  the  affrighted  Earl  around; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn ; 
In  vain  to  call ;  for  not  a  sound 

Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds ; 

No  distant  baying  reached  his  ears: 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground, 

The  quick'ning  spur  unmindful  bears. 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the  shades, 
Dark,  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades, 
Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At  length  the  solemn  silence  broke; 

And,  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red, 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke. 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN.  571 

"  Oppressor  of  creation  fair ! 

Apostate  Spirits'  hardened  tool! 
Scorner  of  God!  Scourge  of  the  poor! 

The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

"  Be  chased  for  ever  through  the  wood ; 

For  ever  roam  the  affrighted  wild ; 
And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 

God's  meanest  creature  is  his  child."  — 

'Twas  hushed:  One  flash,  of  sombre  glare, 
With  yellow  tinged  the  forests  brown; 

Up  rose  the  Wildgrave's  bristling  hair, 
And  horror  chilled  each  nerve  and  bone. 

Cold  poured  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill ; 

A  rising  wind  began  to  sing ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still, 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

Earth  heard  the  call;  —  Her  entrails  rend: 
From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell, 

Mixed  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 
The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  Huntsman  next  arose. 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell; 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  Wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn, 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  wo; 

Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and  horn, 
And,  "Hark  away,  and  holla,  ho!" 


572  THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN. 

With  wild  despair's  reverted  eye, 

Close,  close  behind,  he  marks  the  throng, 

With  bloody  fangs,  and  eager  cry; 
In  frantic  fear  he  scours  along. — 

Still,  still  shall  last  the  dreadful  chase, 
Till  Time  itself  shall  have  an  end: 

By  day,  they  scour  earth's  caverned  space, 
At  midnight's  witching  hour,  ascend. 

This  is  the  horn,  and  hound,  and  horse. 
That  oft  the  'lated  peasant  hears ; 

Appalled,  he  signs  the  frequent  cross, 
When  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear, 
For  human  pride,  for  human  wo, 

When,  at  his  midnight  mass,  he  hears 
The  infernal  cry  of  "Holla,  hq ! " 


(573j 


WAR-SONG. 

To  horse !  to  horse !  the  standard  flies, 

The  bugles  sound  the  call; 
The  Gallic  navy  stems  the  seas, 
The  voice  of  Battle's  on  the  breeze, 

Arouse  ye,  one  and  all ! 

From  high  Dunedin's  towers  we  come, 

A  band  of  brothers  true; 
Our  casques  the  leopard's  spoils  surround, 
With  Scotland's  hardy  thistle  crowned ; 

We  boast  the  red  and  blue. 

Though  tamely  crouch  to  Gallia's  frown. 

Dull  Holland's  tardy  train; 
Their  ravished  toys  though  Romans  mourn, 
Though  gallant  Switzers  vainly  spurn. 

And,  foaming,  gnaw  the  chain; 

O !  had  they  marked  the  avenging  call 

Their  brethren's  murder  gave, 
Disunion  ne'er  their  ranks  had  mown, 
Nor  patriot  valor,  desp'rate  grown. 

Sought  freedom  in  the  grave ! 

Shall  we,  too,  bend  the  stubborn  head. 

In  Freedom's  temple  born, 
Dress  our  pale  cheek  in  timid  smile, 
To  hail  a  master  in  our  isle, 

Or  brook  a  victor's  scorn? 


574  WAR-SONG. 

No!  though  destructiorrt'er  the  land 

Come  pouring  as  a  flood, 
The  sun,  that  sees  our  falling  day, 
Shall  mark  our  sabres'  deadly  sway, 

And  set  that  night  in  blood. 

For  gold  let  Gallia's  legions  fight, 

Or  plunder's  bloody  gain; 
Unbribed,  unbought,  our  swords  we  draw, 
To  guard  our  King,  to  fence  our  Law, 

Nor  shall  their  edge  be  vain. 

If  ever  breath  of  British  gale 

Shall  fan  the  tri-color. 
Or  footstep  of  invader  rude. 
With  rapine  foul,  and  red  with  blood, 

Pollute  our  happy  shore,  — 

Then  farewell  home!  and  farewell  friends' 

Adieu  each  tender  tie! 
Resolved,  we  mingle  in  the  tide, 
Where  charging  squadrons  furious  ride, 

To  conquer,  or  to  die. 

To  horse!  to  horse!  the  sabres  gleam; 

High  sounds  our  bugle  call; 
Combined  by  honor's  sacred  tie, 
Our  word  is.  Laws  and  Liberty! 

March  forward,  one  and  all ! 


(575) 


THE  NORMAN  HORSE-SHOE 

Red  glows  the  forge  in  StriguiPs  bounds, 
And  hammers  din,  and  anvil  sounds, 
And  armorers,  with  iron  toil. 
Barb  many  a  steel  for  battle's  broil 
Foul  fall  the  hand  which  bends  the  steel 
Around  the  courser's  thund'ring  heel, 
That  e'er  shall  dint  a  sable  wound 
On  fair  Glamorgan's  velvet  ground! 

From  Chepstow's  towers,  ere  dawn  of  mom, 
Was  heard  afar  the  bugle-horn ; 
And  forth,  in  banded  pomp  and  pride, 
Stout  Clare  and  fiery  Neville  ride. 
They  swore  their  banners  broad  should  gleam. 
In  crimson  light,  on  Rymny's  stream; 
They  vowed,  Caerphili's  sod  should  feel 
The  Norman  charger's  spurning  heel. 

And  sooth  they  swore  —  the  sun  arose, 
And  Rymny's  wave  with  crimson  glows; 
For  Clare's  red  banner,  floating  wide, 
Rolled  down  the  stream  to  Severn's  tide! 
And  sooth  they  vowed  —  the  trampled  green 
Showed  where  hot  Neville's  charge  had  been: 
In  every  sable  hoof-tramp  stood 
A  Norman  horseman's  curdling  blood! 

Old  Chepstow's  brides  may  curse  the  toil. 
That  armed  stout  Clare  for  Cambrian  broil; 


576 


THE    NORMAN    HORSE-SHOE. 


Their  orphans  long  the  art  may  rue, 
For  Neville's  war-horse  forged  the  shoe. 
No  more  the  stamp  of  armed  steed 
Shall  dint  Glamorgan's  velvet  mead; 
Nor  trace  be  there,  in  early  spring, 
Save  of  the  Fairies'  emerald  ring. 


(577) 


THE  DYING  BARD. 

DiNAS  Emlihn,  lament ;  for  the  moment  is  nigh, 
When  mute  in  the  woodlands  thine  echoes  shall  die : 
No  more  by  sweet  Teivi  Cadwallon  shall  rave, 
And  mix  his  wild  notes  with  the  wild  dashing  wave. 

In  spring  and  in  autumn  thy  glories  of  shade, 
Unhonored  shall  flourish,  unhonored  shall  fade ; 
For  soon  shall  be  lifeless  the  eye  and  the  tongue, 
That  viewed  them  with  rapture,  with  rapture  that  sung. 

Thy  sons,  Dinas  Emlinn,  may  march  in  their  pride, 
And  chase  the  proud  Saxon  from  Prestatyn's  side ; 
But  where  is  the  harp  shall  give  life  to  their  name  ? 
And  where  is  the  bard  shall  give  heroes  their  fame  ? 

And  oh,  Dinas  Emlinn  !  thy  daughters  so  fair, 
Who  heave  the  white  bosom,  and  wave  the  dark  hair ; 
What  tuneful  enthusiast  shall  worship  their  eye, 
When  half  of  their  charms  with  Cadwallon  shall  die  ? 

Then  adieu,  silver  Teivi !  I  quit  thy  loved  scene, 
To  join  the  dim  choir  of  the  bards  who  have  been ; 
With  Lewarch,  and  Meilor,  and  Merlin  the  Old, 
And  sage  Taliessin,  high  harping  to  hold. 

And  adieu,  Dinas  Emlinn !  still  green  be  thy  shades, 
Unconquered  thy  warriors,  and  matchless  thy  maids ! 
And  thou,  whose  faint  warblings  my  weakness  can  tell, 
Farewell,  my  loved  Harp !  my  last  treasure,  farewell ! 

49 


(578 


THE  MAID  OF  TORO. 

0,  LOW  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of  Toro, 

And  weak  were  the  whispers  that  waved  the  dark  wood. 
All  as  a  fair  maiden,  bewildered  in  sorrow, 

Sorely  sighed  to  the  breezes,  and  wept  to  the  flood. 
"  O,  saints !  from  the  mansions  of  bliss  lowly  bending ; 

Sweet  Virgin !  who  hearest  the  suppliant's  cry  ; 
Now  grant  my  petition,  in  anguish  ascending, 

My  Henry  restore,  or  let  Eleanor  die  !  " 

All  distant  and  faint  were  the  sounds  of  the  battle, 

With  the  breezes  they  rise,  with  the  breezes  they  fail, 
Till  the  shout,  and  the  groan,  and  the  conflict's  dread 
rattle, 

And  the  chase's  wild  clamor  came  loading  the  gale. 
Breathless  she  gazed  on  the  woodlands  so  dreary ; 

Slowly  approaching,  a  warrior  was  seen ; 
Life's  ebbing  tide  marked  his  footsteps  so  weary, 

Cleft  was  his  helmet,  and  wo  was  his  mien. 

"  O,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  our  armies  are  flying ! 

O,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  thy  guardian  is  low ! 
Deadly  cold  on  yon  heath  thy  brave  Henry  is  lying ; 

And  fast  through  the  woodland  approaches  the  foe." 
Scarce  could  he  falter  the  tidings  of  sorrow. 

And  scarce  could  she  hear  them,  benumbed  with 
despair : 
And  when  the  sun  sunk  on  the  sweet  lake  of  Toro, 

For  ever  he  set  to  the  Brave  and  the  Fair. 


(579) 


HELLVELLYN. 

I  CLIMBED  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hellvellyn, 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed  misty  and 
wide; 
All  was  still,  save,  by  fits,  when  the  eagle  was  yelling, 

And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was 

bending. 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wand'rer  had 
died. 


Dark  green  was  that  spot  'mid  the  brown  mountain- 
heather, 

Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched  in  decay, 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned  to  weather, 

Till  the  mountain-winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay. 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  fav'rite  attended. 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended, 

And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 


How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber ; 

When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst 
thou  start ; 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou  number, 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 


580 


HELLVELLYN. 


li       ' 


And,  oh !  was  it  meet,  that,  —  no  requiem  read  o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him, 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched  before  him, — 
Unhonored  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 

When  a  Prince  to  the  fate  of  the  Peasant  has  yielded, 
The  tap'stry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted  hall ; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall : 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  are 
gleaming ; 

In  the  proudly-arched  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming ; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  People  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature. 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb  ; 
When,  wildered,  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in 
stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake  lying, 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying. 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 


THE  END. 


'^^^gH^Ofl^' 


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